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AINSWORTH'S HEIR, 



OTHER POEMS. 



FANNY FISHES, 

Author of " Lonely Hows." 



LONDON : 

ALFEED W. BENNETT, 5, BISHOPSGATE WITHOUT. 
1866. 






so-obcs xhwhowr 



UNWIN BROTHERS, PIUNTEKS, BUC KLERSBORT, LONDON. 



CONTENTS. 



aixsworth's heir 1 

MISCELLANEOUS— 

SILENT HOUSEHOLDS ". 129 

NO JEWELS EOR ME 135 

WHERE IS THE SUMMER GONE? 137 

THE MAORI WIDOW 139 

SPRING BUDS 142 

LINES WRITTEN IN AN OLD BOOK 144 

DEARER TO ME 146 

THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE 148 

SERENADE (WRITTEN TO. MUSIC) 159 

LET THE EXILE DREAM 161 

IRELAND AS SHE IS 162 

prose versus poetry 167 



V CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

oh! sing that song once more 169 

is friendship but a name? 171 

one happy day gone by 172 

then turn to me 175 

on receiving a brother's photograph three years 

after his death 177 

summer flowers 180 

autumn leaves (written for music) 184 

beloved one 186 

a withered flower 187 



PREFACE. 



A few words of explanation are clue to the many 
kind friends who but two years ago encouraged the 
publication of " Lonely Hours," and who may sup- 
pose that the author has not exercised sufficient 
reflection in so soon soliciting public attention to 
another poetical work. 

She does not build her hope of success for this 
volume altogether on the favourable reception her last 
met with, but trusts that a somewhat more mature 
experience, improved judgment, and corrected fancy, 
have enabled her to produce thoughts in the present 
volume which may commend themselves to at least 
some of the lovers of poetical fiction whose appro- 



bation she is most ambitious to obtain ; and secure 
for ber on tbis occasion, as on the last, some of 
tbe large-hearted favour which so amply repaid all 
the anxieties and apprehensions attendant on literary 
ventures. She will in any case deem her labours 
amply rewarded if they are instrumental in directing 
the thoughts of any reader to a contemplation and 
practice of what is good, or beautiful, or true ; or 
in soothing any mind which may have been un- 
favourably affected by the perturbing cares of the 
world. 



TO 
THE GREAT ENGLISH NOVELIST, 
DRAMATIST, ESSAYIST AND POET, 

SIR E. BULWER LYTTON, BART. M.P. 

THE FOLLOWING POEMS 

ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED 

BY HIS ADMIRER, 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



A Glimpse of Home 

A Mother's Prayer 

A Pilgrim's Prayer 

Acrostic (The Princess of Wales) 

A Valentine 

A Wish (Oh may thy life, &c.) . 

Adare .... 

A Christmas Carol for little children 

A Wish (May love's fair flower, &c.) 

A Dream 

After a Ball 

A Letter from a friend 

A Wish (May bright success, &c.) 

A Valentine (There is a heart, &c.) 

A Wish (May hope and joy, &c.) 

A Treasured Gift 

Alone .... 

A Friend's Remonstrance . 



70 
99 
113 



150 
153 
155 
173 
183 
203 
20-1 
229 



A Valentine (Oh ! say not, sweet lady) . 
At*least my friend, forget me not 
A Wish (If Heaven would hear a lover's prayer) 
Anabelle , .... 



B. 



Bring me to Effy's Grave 
Beauty and Goodness 



108 
213 



Charity 
Children . 
Cold Words 
Childhood's Griefs 
Call me not fair 



Dead 

Did I not miss thee 



Erin's Daughter 



Farewell to thee, dearest 
Farewell to thee, Ireland 
Farewell . 
Faithful still to thee 



CONTENTS. 


XI 




PAGE 


Footsteps . 


uo 


Farewell to Killarney 


169 


Friendship's Offering 


178 


Farewell, dear boy 


220 


Friendship's -wreath and chain 


227 


Faith ..... 


271 



Good Bye 



Hawthorn 








124 


Home .... 






177 


Hawthorn 








195 


Hopeless Love 








208 


He is but gone before 








211 


Had we not met . 








246 


Haste, bright day 








252 


He's gone 








254 


Hints 








258 


Have we not known each c 


ther long 






282 



" Ireland as it was," and " Ireland as it is" 


61 


Impromptu lines on a Storm 


132 


I'll not profess 


135 


I knew I should not love thee 


138 


I spoke unkindly .... 


222 


Inconstancy .... 


231 



I'll love my own love still 
Invitations to a Ball 
I think of thee, my brother 
I think of thee 



Life's Pathway 

Little children 

Lines on hearing a lady called a coquette 

Lines written in the Glasgow Necropolis 

Lines written on the death of a friend 

Lines on a lovely girl 

Lines on a beautiful infant 

Love's sincerity 



$6 
102 
122 
221 
225 
257 



Moonlight Fancies 

My Island Home . 

My heart is thine . 

Music 

My Mother's Prayer 

Muckross Abbey . 

My soul's worst agony 

Memory's casket . 

Many sought to win my love 



104 
128 
136 
146 
163 
180 
238 
259 



My last farewell 
My Home 



Our one wee girl . 

Oh ! -where is the old home 

On receiving three primroses 



Poor withered Rose 



Ross Island 
Remembered still 
Return to me 



162 
228 
243 



Summer ...... 


78 


Sweet Eily my star .... 


82 


Sable Robes ..... 


100 


Stanzas (A flower cannot live, &c.) , 


154 


Sad Reflections ..... 


175 


Stanzas (Thou wert the star) 

Spring ....,, 


189 
191 



Slander ..... 

Song 

Stanzas (I ne'er have seen thee, lovely spot) 

Stanzas (Long may thy heart, &c.) 

Stanzas (Again, false pride, &c.) . 

Sixth anniversary of our wedding day 

Song (Oh ! hush, let me list) 

Stanzas (I sadly marked her lovely cheek) 



The Sailor's Wife 

The Old year and the New 

The Tiny Grave . 

There's sunshine 'neath the cloud . 

The Forest Wild . 

The Sunlight of my soul 

The influence of love 

The saddest thing 

The well of Sychar 

To an Examiner . 

The Cottage Home 

They say she's heartless 

That silent hour 

To a Fop . 

They told me thou wert dying 

To (Art thou not changed) 

To an absent one . 

The first grey hair 

The lock of hair 

Three days in Killarney . 

The Gap of Dunloe 



CONTENTS. 






XV 


PAGE 

The Black Valley . . . . .166 


The old 'Weir Bridge 






167 


The Tone of Friendship . 






170 


The Song of the past 






174 


Think not of the past 






181 


Ten years gone by 






184 


To a friend on her sister's marriage 






193 


Thou'rt loved and lovely still 






194 


To (Oh ! would that I could chase 


away) 




199 


To a stricken one 






201 


The missing footstep 






206 


Thou art not here 






219 


To Emma 






223 


To (Have patience yet) . 






224 


The lonely one 






233 


To (I ne'er have seen thee, &c.) 






251 


To (We met but once, &c.) 






253 


The past . . . 






261 


The shade of sadness 






2C2 


To a friend 






265 


Thou'rt mine 






267 


The loved and lost 






274 


To Fanny 






280 


The American Mother 






287 



Vice and Virtue's 
Vice 



Virtue 

Violets 



AINSWOETH'S HEIR. 



i. 

Spieit of song ! whose faery touch can turn 

Our dead affections into deathless loves, 

Visit my day-dreams, and impart the power, 

To vitalize these simple flowers of mine, 

Which I would rescue from the scythe of time — 

The amaranths that grace the muses' bower 

Are fairer far, yet even these may live, 

Which breathe of Eden, though bedewed with tears, 

Like memory's offering on the grave of love — 



2 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Breathe on them, thou, and they shall never die ; 
And those who look on them may think of me ; 
As one, who poring o'er some favorite hook, 
The love gift of a friend long dead and gone, 
Finds a sweet flower, still living in the leaves, 
And gives a thought to her who placed it there. 

II. 
Fair evening falls upon a verdant hill, 
Where oak trees rear their heads in ancient pride, 
As conscious of their noble state, and seem 
To whisper tales of Druid days of old, 
As the wind rustles through their leafy houghs. 
Across the chequered shade, the fallow deer 
Bound frequent, and the flocks with tinkling bells 
Make music with the murmuring brook that feeds 
A fairy lake, that shimmers in the sun, 
Where floats all indolent the stately swan ; 
Fast by a hazel dell, where lovers' vows 
Were interchanged by many a youthful heart. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



Upon that hill a noble castle stood, 
The dwelling of Lord Elliott, gay and fair, 
Heir of broad lands and lineage full old, 
Whose chieftains proud had won a noble name 
In battle-fields. Not very far from hence 
Another mansion rose, Lord Ainsworth's, who 
Was all the tenants' lord, lord of their hearts, 
So well beloved was he ; young, handsome, rich, 
The poor man's friend, the tyrant's sternest foe ; 
A king of kingdoms, where he wished to reign — 
Even in the humblest homestead of the good. 



Lord Ainsworth's castle, built in troubled times, 
Was a proud structure of the feudal age ; 
Massive and spacious, armed with flanking towers 
With war-like battlements, and drawbridge, fosse, 
Loopholes and arrow slits, and embrazures : 



4 AINSWOETHS HEIE. 

Its old grey front looked sternly on the world, 
Like a bold chieftain of the olden time, 
Scared with the war-marks of full many a foe. 
But modern art had beautified its walls 
With oriel lights and pointed gables fair ; 
And when, as on this gentle summer eve 
The sunlight danced upon its painted panes, 
Reflecting rainbow rays around its mass, 
It looked as though the glory of bright fame 
Still hovered round it from the olden time. 

V. 

And to its solitude old legends clung, 
Fast as the ivy 'round its ancient towers ; 
Stories of haunted grounds and fairy dells, 
And shapes unearthly seen at moonlight hours. 
This noble castle towered above the sea, 
Which dashed its snowy spray along its rear, 
Washing each pointed rock and sand and shell, 
'Till, many fathoms in the bay, long reefs 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Lift up their heads above its dancing tide ; 

Unless forewarned of whose fatal ridge 

The wretched seamen finds his saddest doom. 

VI. 

But Castle Elliott was a cloistered pile, 
Half fortalice, half monastery, dull 
And dismal in its solitary pile ; 
Yet, like a thought of poetry and skill, 
Found in a tale of hard insipid work, 
The sculptor carved above its marble porch 
A form that well might beautify the whole, 
A faultless statue, which Lord Elliott vowed 
Had cost his fathers quite a mint of gold. 
For this he prized it, as it could enhance 
His vast possessions, but its silent worth 
He could not comprehend, nor sought to do ; 
For empty, light and low, or course of mind, 
He scoffed for ever at the beautiful. 



6 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

VII. 

Lord Elliott wooed, but wooed, alas ! in vain, 

The lovely maid, who loved young Ainsworth long, 

With hidden fervor, known alone to heaven 

And her own soul. At length, 'twas bliss to hear, 

From Ainsworth's lips the tale of passion which 

In fervent truth, he felt for her alone. 

Oh ! the new rapture, and the bright fresh draught 

Her thirsty soul had longed for. I have seen 

A bird grown weary on the wing, but which 

Could never rest on common soil, but flew 

On, ever on, until at length it found 

The place it sought, and there it staid content, 

Secure, in thy security, sweet love. 



And so it was with her pure heart, it sought 
Its kindred and could find no rest 'till there 
It lay content, and found the wished for peace. 



AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

He wedded her, and they most happy lived, 

No envy hearing, though they envied were ; 

Even for the happiness, which made a foe 

In Elliott — who, through wounded pique and pride, 

Had also wedded ; hut the secret love 

Still felt for Ainsworth's wife, cankered the soil 

Of good within his breast, while vengeance worked 

Over and over some black plot of hate. 

IX. 

Was it that envy, which prevailed at last 
In troubling Lady Ainsworth's gentle heart ? 
Her lovely face had been a cloudless sky, 
Save when she sympathized with others' grief ; 
For never yet distress had tried in vain 
To move her heart. It now grew dark at times, 
And alternating moods of joy and grief 
Bespoke a mind at variance with itself; 
Sunshine and clouds, an April of the soul, 
Without the genial promise of the spring. 



8 AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

And so, when years of wedded life were passed, 
And still no heir was likely to be born, 
The prating gossips, and the village crones 
Who loved their lady, yet would ponder o'er 
Rumours that babbled of her waiting-maid, 
A foreign woman, whose mysterious fate 
Seemed mingled strangely with her lady's life. 

X. 

And when at last the welcome heir was born, 
The maid had fled, but whither none could tell ; 
And envious rumour interposed again, 
Breathing the dreaded tale that Ainsworth's heir 
Had been still-bom, but others laughed full loud 
Upon the healthy babe, who kicked and crowed, 
While clamouring for its rights ; then each one vowed 
He was the mystic charm that chased away 
The evil hovering 'round the lordly house, 
In the strange image of the gipsy maid. 
And where was she, who ever hovered 'round 



AINSWORTH S HEIK. 

The Lady Ainsworth, like a shadow dark ? 
She fled at midnight ; no one saw her go, 
. Yet each heart felt relieved as of a weight, 
Relieved of her. So ere the hells rang out . 
To tell in merry concert to the town 
The joyful news, that Ainsworth's heir was horn- 
She was well-nigh forgotten ; if perchance 
At times remembered, every mind dismissed 
The thought of evil in the new-born joy. 

XI. 

And so the longed-for heir, young Walter, grew 

Noble in beauty, bold, robust in form, 

A summer flower reared in affection's sun ; 

Healthy and strong, dark, beautiful, and glad, 

A bright star dimming the inferior light 

That dared to venture near it ; but, alas ! 

When once afar, when once from out the sight, 

Was all forgotten like a fairy dream, 

That was too transient, of too light a mould 



10 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

To take deep root upon the dreamer's mind. 
Yet Lady Ains worth's heart grew glad again 
With the sweet cherub fondled to her breast. 

XII. 

Another babe there came, but sickly, small, 
Like a white snow- drop on the tree of life — 
Fragile and delicate, yet passing fair, 
Claiming all pity, tenderness, and love ; 
Who, as he grew, grew deeper in each soul, 
And seemed to haunt you with a mystic power. 
Then, as you turned to gaze, and gaze again, 
You felt an interest, felt a holy awe, 
As though an instinct whispered to your soul 
That as you gazed, 'twas on the good and great. 

XIII. 
And thus, young Ernest shone upon the earth, 
Like a rare gem that dropped from heaven's crown, 
Reflecting its own brightness on each heart, 



AIXSWOHTH S HEIE. 

Like the bright tints the rainbow ever throws 
On the surrounding sky. His mother felt 
A depth of tenderness for him, that ne'er 
Before could warm her breast : true woman she 
To love the best, what needed most her care. 

XIV. 
He was the household's idol ; every heart 
Could worship nature in her loveliest guise. 
For pity flows fi'om out love's gentle soul, 
And many tears were shed, because the babe 
Grew like an opening bud that struggled hard 
To free its petals from a heavy bond 
Which bent its stem, and shadowed half its light. 
From out young Ernest's face an angel smiled, 
To plead serenely for his crippled form ; 
And even his father felt the gentle power 
Of charms possessed by that poor puny boy ; 
But, for his first-born, Walter, joy and pride 
Could only reign. He was his hope, his heir — 



12 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

So blind indulgence, pampered whims and faults, 

Which deeper grew with years, and helped to spoil 

The sacred surface of the youthful heart, 

So soft and pliable for fate's great stamp. 

Nor deemed he such indulgence, ever yet 

Fell like a frost upon the tender germ 

Of virtue in the soul, planting the root 

Of sordid selfishness, leaving the weeds 

And tares of empty vanity. Alas ! 

For him, who knows no better love than this. 

XV. 
happy parent ! who is ever kind 
And gentle to the treasured ones of home — 
To all the children prattling round the hearth, 
That make glad music in his breast, and add 
A wondrous charm to life, who, where reproof 
Is called for, can reprove, but only in 
A mild and gentle form, as if rebuke 
Pained the reprover more than the reproved ! 



AINSWOETH S HEIR. 1 

Thus did the brothers grow, but ever with 
A different influence on the parents' heart. 
Yet love for each was at the core, and kept 
The mainspring working gently, if not well. 

XVI. 
How fared Lord Elliott through those four long years 
Sadly, indeed. No happy lot was his — 
No offspring blest his union until now, 
And it was but a girl, at which he raved, 
All vexed to have no heir ; but soon the babe 
Stole softly to his heart, and he would vow 
^ No son could e'er be half so dear as May.v 
And so his dark home brightened with her smile, 
And time sped happier on unheeded wing, 
Till she sprang up into a baby girl, 
In grace and beauty, quite a fairy queen. 



14 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

XVII. 

One day, when May was straying all alone, 
Bright as a sunbeam, pure as summer's dawn, 
Culling wild roses in the hazel dell, 
One half of which fringed part of Elliott's lawn, 
Clasping itself to Ainsworth's vast estate, 
She, decking with their bloom her golden curls, 
And laughing as they fell, in childish glee, 
Beheld a vision, which disturbed her mirth, 
Making her pause in silence and in awe ; 
For there reclined upon a mossy bank, 
Not far from where she stood, a little boy, 
Whom she had never seen till now. He held 
A book within his hand, of bearing mild, 
And noble, yet so sad. His face was one 
To haunt the heart, and press upon the mind 
A sense of untold goodness, which was felt 
Instinctively by May, as yet too young 
To reason why she felt so, or to know 
That ever thus she could have felt at all. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 15 

XVIII. 

She stood half spell-bound till the book was closed ; 
Then Ernest raised his eyes, but saw her not. 
Those eyes ! oh, what a world of tenderness 
Of love and truth shone from their thoughtful depth ! 
He moved and smiled — for through the rustling trees 
He sees the form of her he loves the best. 
And who was she ? the mother of his heart, 
The Lady Ainsworth, looking for her boy ; 
But with a pensive and abstracted air, 
Like that of one whose heart was far away, 
Holding communion with unwelcome thoughts. 
" What art thou thinking of, my mother dear ?" 
Bethought the child, as unobserved he stole 
Through tangled boughs, near where the lady stood. 

XIX. 
The past comes back — she's thinking of the hour 
When orange blossoms trembled on her brow, 
Where one she loved, as now thou lovest her 



16 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Stood by her on her happy bridal day. 

The grave has closed upon that peerless friend ; 

Yet still she sees the loving anxious look, 

That beamed from eyes half dim with age and tears, 

The sun light playing on her silver hair, 

Beneath her snow-white head gear well arranged ; 

The pale grey dress, in every fold of which 

Shone forth the care the gentle mother knew, 

To honour well her daughter's bridal morn. 

She felt the pressure of the tender hand 

Lingering in hers, as loath to break the bond 

That ever is so sacred to the heart 

Of the fond parent and the loving child. 

XX. 

And then the form of that loved husband grew 
Distinctly mid the throng of other years. 
She knew he ever loved her, yet she felt 
A something undefined — a want, a pang — 
She could not fancy why 'twas so, and yet 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 17 

It still was there. Most fond and kind was he — 
Tender, affectionate ; but still she felt 
That something wanted — foolish mortal she, 
To wait for that which never could be hers : 
I The fulness of a love that is but felt 
In woman's breast alone. Though man may love 
As best he can, 'tis but a selfish thing 
Compared to that which knows no greater bliss 
Than sacrificing all it prized, to add 
To its beloved one's life another joy. 

XXI. 

If those whose hearts have changed with changing 

years, 
Who feel the love of other days die out, 
Leaving behind the ashes of its fire, 
Could find within tli3 mouldered embers still 
One little spark that memory's breath could fan, 
let it glow in pity to the life 
That feeds itself upon its tenderness. 



18 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

Take but one glimpse — look backward o'er the past, 

What is reflected now from memory's light ? 

A blushing maiden 'neath a bridal veil, 

Thy new-made bride, the one star of thy life, 

With rosy hope upon her youthful brow, 

Joy in her eyes and love upon her lips, 

Peace in each smile and faith within each tone, 

Glowing with trust and innocence her form, 

Giving her heart most freely all to thee. 

Pure and unchanging for a life-long gift 

Standing beside the maid you take her hand, 

Vowing before the eye of Him above, 

To cherish and protect the sacred charge. 

The picture changes — she's no more a bride. 

Look now upon the features of thy wife ; 

Are they not changed ? or are they yet the same ? 

Look well beneath the rugged marks of time, 

And read reproach too often written there. 



AIXSWOKTH S HEIR. 



XXII. 

■J Alas ! proud man, how have you kept that vow ? 
You've showered at her feet all worldly wealth ; 
You've ever been, you think, most good and kind, 
And acted well your part throughout life's play. 
Till pausing at the scene that seemed to you 
Too light, and insignificant a thing 
To notice, glossing o'er its depth in scorn, 
Your footsteps tottered, and your will grew weak. 
Yet in that scene the great point lay concealed, 
Ne'er yet attained by man, and ne'er shall be 
The satisfying of a woman's heart, 
Without the tokens of a genuine love. 
Nor is she too exacting. See her twine 
Her crouched affections round her tiny babes, 

to raise her drooping heart through theirs. 



XXIII. 
Then mark her day by day, go silent on, 
Discharging all the little cares of home, 
c2 



20 AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

With nought to break their dull monotony. 
She murmurs not, but ever wears a smile 
To welcome his return, her bosom's lord, 
Who never dreams one gentle word of praise, 
One loving tone, as in the days of old, 
Would well requite her for a life of toil. 
man, blind man, why grudge the simple spell 
That ever makes a woman's home her world ? 

xxrv. 

But deeper thoughts came o'er her vision sad 
As Lady Ainsworth looked upon the past, . 
For she had not to mourn a loveless lot, 
Who was almost the pulse of Ainsworth's heart. 
She saw the buds of happiness and trust, 
"Which never came to bloom, all pine away 
And die beneath the influence of a weed 
That very poison was, for it could turn 
Each happy feeling into bitterness. 
It was the thought that Ernest was unloved 



A1XSW0RTH S HEIR. 

By Ainsworth, who, blind to each fault and act 
Of disobedience in his eldest born 
Pampered his vices, meant in kindness all ; 
Xor marked he that the fair and radiant child 
Still grew each day more wayward in his whims. 
'Twas hard to see the dear and tender being, 
That most she cherished writhe in sickness oft ; 
To feel how sad would be the cripple's fate, 
If he should live to miss a mother's care. 

XXV. 
Oh woman ! time dispels thy girlish dreams 
Of lasting worship and eternal love. 
The paradise of youth, the heaven of earth, 
Experience, or adversity must change. 
But when did woman ever cease to weave 
Fate's fondest visions for her favourite child ? 
Or cease to hang on gentle hope, that bears 
Her through the realms of fancy's brightest maze, 
Building for him a castle proud and high ? 



22 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

But it may be too high, and proud, for gales 
Of raging woe may beat against its walls — ■ 
May shake its frail foundation, and at length 
Turn it to dust, for it is all of earth. 

XXVI. 
Young Ernest saw her weep, and started up. 
Sweet May drew back still farther in the shade, 
And blamed herself for gazing on a scene 
That far too sacred seemed for stranger's eyes 
To witness. Still she looked, and trembles now 
To find that noble boy deformed, and thought 
She found the source of that poor parent's grief. 
He silent knelt beside his mother's knee, 
And gently pushed his little head between 
Her white clasped hands, and gazed within her eyes, 
Murmuring, "Sweet mother, weep not thus for me." 
She looked upon her child one long sad look ; 
Then faster — faster fell the woman's tears 
Upon the idol of her earthly life ; 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 2! 

Then something whispered that the clew of soul 
Would rise in incense to the throne ahove, 
"Where pity's angel stands to catch the drops 
That fall from mourners' eyes, and lays them down 
Before the Maker's feet, knowing full well 
The hand of mercy wipes them all away. 

XXVII. 

Transfixed was May, till something cold and soft 
Upon her hand she felt — then starting, found 
A large Newfoundland dog crouched by her side, 
One she had seen beside the cripple boy ; 
And feeling it was his, caressed it well, 
Bidding him follow while she gathered up 
The sweetest violets of the early spring, 
To twine them in a wreath, and cut for him 
One straying curl from off her sunny head, 
To bind it fast upon his glossy neck. 



24 AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

XXVIII. 

Now Ernest, when alone, soon missed his pet, 
And whistling, was surprised he did not hear 
The answering hark of Pedro. So he called 
His favourite's name, who hounded all delight 
Back to his master's side, and laid his head 
With suppliant look upon his master's knee. 
Young Ernest wondering whence couldcome the wreath, 
Perplexed, looked round, and there May Elliott saw, 
Who half-ahashed, yet childlike, frank, advanced, 
Said she had gathered them, and often would 
If flowers he liked. So Ernest smiled, and said, 
He loved them much ; and Slay, bright blooming May, 
Strewed flowers upon the path, that scarcely knew 
Before their blossoms, or their treacherous thorns. 

XXIX. 

Thus met the children in the hazel dell, 

Joined by gay Walter, who soon learned to deem 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 21 

Ma)" Elliott something far too fair for earth, 

Bowing before the little child a will 

That ne'er to mortal ever bowed till then. 

Far happier were the pair before he came, 

Fuller of joy and peace — they knew not why. 

The youthful maiden's heart shrunk back from him, 

But rested in a calm and tender trust 

On gentle Ernest, whom, though older than 

The tiny maid, she ruled with fondest power. 

XXX. 

Thus met the children when fair summer smiled, 
And sent her balmy breath o'er land and sea, 
Gladdening the earth with verdure and with flowers. 
They met when blossoms turned to ripening fruit, 
Like a fair girl to lovely woman grown, 
Wooing the glance of autumn's mellow sun. 
And e'en when winter's hoary-headed king 
Ascended to his throne, and frowned on all, 
Killing each flowret that might linger yet, 



26 AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

And nipping every tree within his reach, 
Loosening his plume upon the chilly air, 
Whose feathers fall upon the earth all white. 
They met when spring peeped coyly under hills, 
And sent her first pale primrose on the earth, 
As jealous of the welcome it might get 
In a cold world it never knew before. 

XXXI. 

Now Ernest had a grief that ever pressed 

Most deeply on his heart. His mother, fond, 

Had looked so pale of late. He often caught 

Her bathed in tears, when she would snatch him up 

Most madly to her breast, and sob, "0 heaven, 

Kind heaven, but spare me yet a while — 

One little while, for my poor cripple's sake." 

As Ernest lay awake one night beside 

The dreaming Walter in their sleeping room, 

Thinking he heard a noise most strange to hear 

Within that mansion at so late an hour, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 27 

He marked a footstep at his mother's door. 
His mother ! that sweet dreani which ever came 
Upon the pillow of his childhood's life, 
Smiling away the little cares of fate, 
And making all his sky serene and fair. 

XXXII. 
His mother ! that one true and steadfast friend, 
At whose dear knee he knelt but yestere'en, 
Deeming he saw far in that heaven on high 
The bliss that in each prayer she told him of. 
Then looking in her eyes he fondly traced 
Pure forms like hers, and deemed them angel forms ; 
Shivering with fear, he tottered to the door 
Of that dear chamber where he oft had slept, 
Lulled on the bosom of that loving one, 
When pain and sickuess racked his weary frame, 
And where she soothed and watched her suffering child, 
As none but mothers ever watched before. 



28 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

XXXIII. 

Trembling, he tapped, and then the aged nurse, 

Who tended that loved parent when a babe, 

And since both him and Walter nursed, came forth, 

And whispering, told him " Wait a little while, 

And you shall see the sweetest, tiniest girl, 

Which is to you a baby- sister born." 

He waited, and there came a faint low wail, 

But not an infant's cry, it seemed as though 

It were the breath of some departing soul. 

And now he trembles worse, for hark ! his name 

Is mingled with the moan he hears full well — 

" My Ernest, let him come, my cripple boy." 

And then he hears a fervent prayer, and words 

Of heavenly peace and resignation mild, 

Bright with the joy of humble faith in God. 

And then his father's voice is raised in grief, 

While tones of love are falling from his lips, 

But on a heart that ne'er shall feel them more. 



AIXSWOETH S HEIR. 29 

XXXIV. 

Ernest obeys the loved one's dying call, 

And falls beside the couch, which now but held 

The corpse of her who was his second life. 

They bore him to his chamber, where he lay 

All pale and tearless, like some broken reed, 

Some helpless shrub, all crushed and trodded down, 

Bereft of sap, whose root shall spring no more. 

He could not weep ; the soul's deep fountain dried, 

So scorching was the anguish felt within ; 

No tears yet fell to cool his burning brain, 

Or calm the mind that tottered 'neath their weight. 

XXXV. 

" Why, weep not, darling ?" would the old nurse say ; 
" Those unshed drops but sear and freeze the heart. 
Oh ! I have seen you weep for less than this : 
The breaking of a toy — the crushing of 
The meanest insect creeping o'er your path. 



30 AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

But now that she is gone, who loved you so, 
You do not shed one tear. "Weep, Ernest, weep ; 
Your mother's dead. Alas ! poor stricken lamh." 

XXXVI. 

She laid the boy all gently on the bed, 

And watched beside him with an anxious eye', 

"Wond'ring how old he looked, so pinched and wan, 

As suffering, in the space of those short hours, 

An endless time of anguish uncontrolled. 

At length the child, all weary, worn, and sad, 

Closed his hot tearless eyes ; and then the nurse, 

Deeming he slept, moved softly forth, and soon 

Poor Ernest felt a presence near, that scarce 

He could remember e'er so near before ; 

And opening wide his orbs, beheld his sire, 

Who stooped, with pallid face and outstretched arms, 

As in obedience to her dying charge. 

" Come to my heart," he said. " She left thee here, 

My tender one. Alas ! too lately loved ; 



AIXSWOETH S HEIR. 31 

May heaven direct me how to love thee more. 

I cannot hear to see that strange wild look. 

Boy, hoy ! where are your tears ? that none can fall, 

That none can fall to know your mother's dead." 

XXXVII. 
But still the child gazed meaningless around, 
And still no tear had come to his relief. 
They tried sweet music, e'en the plaintive airs 
That she so oft had played. And Walter came 
And talked heside him, dwelling on their loss ; 
But still no gesture showed how Ernest felt. 
That night the nurse when to her darling crept, 
Fearing to hreak his slumbers, breathless leaned 
Over his silken couch, drew back appalled 
To find no Ernest there. Surprised, alarmed, 
She hurried to the chamber of the dead, 
Where by the death-couch, as if dead himself, 
Lay the young mourner, with his weary head 
Reposing on the bosom of the corpse ; 



32 ATNSWOETH S HEIR. 

The moisture of his grief still clamp upon 
His long fringed eyelids, and his pallid cheek 
Like some soft flower bedewed with evening's tears, 
Which twined its loving tendrils round the stem 
Of a white lily, lying lifeless near. 

XXXVTII. 

The morning dawned upon the funeral throng, 
And Ernest felt more gloom within his breast ; 
He marked his father in the long black cloak, 
Holding his heedless brother by the hand ; 
He saw the waving plumes, the solemn hearse, 
The nodding flowers upon the verdant lawn ; 
He heard the voices of the tenantry 
Sadly commingling with the song of birds, 
Like joy and sorrow walking hand in hand, 
In smiles and tears, along the path of life. 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 

XXXIX. 

They stood beside the grave ; the first damp sod 

Had fallen on the coffin— lowered deep 

Within the narrow bed — hollow it fell, 

And smote npon the heart of him who stood 

With folded arms against a marble tomb, 

'Till tears came fast, though pride forbade their fi 

Oh ! the wild agony, that wrings a tear 

From out the eye of manhood ; yet weep on, 

And offer that last tribute of thy love 

Unto the memory of the dear one dead : 

Blush not, true man, for that which honour does 

Unto the feelings of the noblest heart. 

XL. 
, Alas ! the blank of home, when what once filled 
Its tender duties is no longer near ; 
The look, the smile, the voice, the loving word 
For ever gone, yet sadly echoed still 



34 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

By every chord of fondest memory. 
Much Ernest missed that tender friend, but he 
Shall weep a season, and the time will come 
When even he will cease at last to mourn, 
And all the sorrow of his fresh young heart, 
Pass like a breath upon a troubled wave. 

XLT. 
An interest sprung within his loving heart 
For little Alice, that sweet baby-girl ; 
He smiled once more to hear her joyous laugh, 
Though Walter scoffed, and called him " Mistress 

Nurse," 
Laughing derisive of his girlish ways, 
And bade him take a lesson from himself, 
As from the sternest model of a man. 
He was a strange, a dark mysterious boy 
That Walter, his fond father's favourite son, 
And on his haughty brow had nature writ 
" This is a tyrant if he had the power " — 



AINSWOBTHS HEIE. 35 

Quick and intelligent, and apt to learn ; 

All ice in friendship but all fire in love, 

He was unloved where he most looked for love, 

And hated "where he scarce expected hate. 

XLII. 
One day, he shot a beggar's dog in sport, 
Sport most congenial to a grovelling mind ; 
And turning round to hide his cruel joy 
Eeceived a blow, that felled him to the earth. 
'Twas from his brother's arm, well nerved by scorn, 
And in the fury at the coward's deed, 
The cripple's proved the stronger arm for once ; 
And then arose a deeper feud between 
Those who were claimed the children of one love, 
Which darker grew with years, as clouds will spread 
And hide the light reflected from the sun. 



d2 



36 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

XLIII. 

Now both the youths were busy with their books, 
But with far different fruit, for nature's gifts 
Did twice the work for one in half the time — 
And Walter's progress was so far outstripped 
By his young brother, that another cause 
Of bitter jealousy shot envious pangs, 
Which wanted but the rivalry of love 
To make him feel at times like Cain of old. 
And yet each day found Ernest happier grown, 
Despite those broils, and senseless to the gibes 
Of Walter, who as yet had never dreamed 
Why looked bis brother ever bright and calm : 
Oh ! had he guessed the demon sleeping now 
Within his bosom, soon would wake to kill ! 



Oh ! happy Ernest, in the blooming flowers 

Which came round Pedro's neck from May's dear hand, 



AINSWOETH S HEIK. 

Full many a billet doux lay all concealed, 

And like the fragrant petals, breathed to heaven 

The deathless odours of a pure young soul. 

And so he grew unshaken in his love, 

Changeless in friendship and in goodness firm, 

Strong in his weakness, gentle, manly,, brave, 

Filling his duty as a duteous son, 

And carving for himself a living fame, 

If charity and faith a halo shed 

Around a mind by brightest truth endowed. 



The summer reigned in glorious beauty gay, 
And smiled on earth its softest sweetest smile ; 
The young leaves rustled in the zephyr's sigh, 
And the sweet robin sang his evening hymn 
To the Creator of that radiant sun, 
Whose parting light was crimsoning the west. 



38 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

XL VI. 

Again is evening falling on the hill, 
That crowned the vista of Lord Elliott's lawn, 
And the bright diamonds of the evening's dew 
Lay studding o'er a sheet of emerald green, 
And little streamlets rushing near the dell 
Murmured their joy to every hazel shrub. 

XLVII. 
Calm nature seemed to send her incense up, 
Its last sweet offering from each closing flower, 
"Which be it e'en the daisy of the field, 
The gay exotic or the opening rose, 
Pours forth its tale of one pure love supreme. 
And tells of blessings showered upon our lot. 

XLVIII. 
How fair is earth, what wondrous beauty lies 
In all created by the Maker's hand ! 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 

Aye ! fair it is, though senseless mortal sees 
But through the feelings of his own blind will. 
Yes, bright is earth, but ah ! 'tis brighter far 
When love's sweet smiles a happy halo throw 
Upon the precincts of its loveliest space ; 
Then all the rosy tints of glowing hope 
Spread colours o'er a picture dull before. 

XLIX. 
But all this scene, though beautiful and fair, 
Seemed like a frown on nature's mournful face, 
Unto the eye of Ernest as he stood 
Within the shadows of the hazel dell. 
What wonder that he seemed so sad and lone, 
For few there be who hold not one sweet spot 
Sacred from other soil, the space made dear 
By the fond presence of one most beloved. 
Yes, sad he felt, for this fair trysting-place 
He soon may see no more ; the word has come 
From his stem father, that his son should seek 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



The knowledge, which is only taught hy that 
One great preceptor, which is called the world. 



So far away, to other climes unknown, 

He must depart to mingle with his kind, 

And it was woe to leave so long the star 

That ever shone to guide his future lot ; 

But time or space could have no power to dim 

That beacon light of safety and of love. 

The young man stood, for Ernest now had grown 

To man's estate, and e'en the fondest heart 

Could not have hoped more happy growth for him ; 

The sweet refinement of the placid face 

Was fit companion for the large soft eye ; 

The stature tall, hut slightly crippled still, 

Which you forgot to mark, or marking would 

Not heed, so high and noble was his mien. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 4 

LI. 

He stood in thoughtful sadness in the dell, 

' Till roused by one who well had served him long, 

Gay Eob the Rover, of the village -green, 

So nick-named by the villagers through love, 

For he had been baptized with due respect 

The name of " Roderick Roberts," which too stiff 

And formal seemed for simple folk, whose hearts 

Sat ever on their kind and honest lips. 

He was their pet and now he is their pride, 

His face is handsome, though 'tis sunburnt o'er ; 

His voice most pleasant, and his greeting that 

Which might have pleased in fax a higher state. 

No hand as his so steady at the plough, 

So willingly fulfils the roughest toil, 

And serves his friend as freely as himself. 



42 ATNSWORTH S HEIR. 

LII. 

Trusted by all, where trust is needed most, 

Though laughed at loudly for his merry ways, 

With temper good, and brains, though humble, clear, 

Affections warm, and heart and instincts true ; 

But loving danger for the danger's sake ; 

Most steadfast in a wild propensity 

To keep for ever on the wing of change ; 

Yet farther than the forest or the chase 

Fate had not let bold Koderick ever roam. 

Oft had he dandled Ernest when a babe 

Upon his knee, and so he loved the child, 

And deeper grew the feeling for the lad, 

Until it rose to worship for the man. 

Lin. 

Oh ! there was many a tidy conntiy lass 

That fain would have good Koderick for her spouse, 

But he — through folly, or caprice, or what, 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 

Perhaps was wisdom — better liked a life 

" Of single blessedness ;" and so be staid 

Alone, contented witb bis peaceful lot. 

" Good luck, Sir master," said tbe peasant friend, 

" There's many a beart as sad as yours to-day, 

There's many a tear will fall that gathers now 

To see you leave our simple village homes ; 

But listen, Sir, and give good ear I pray, 

If it were only for the old time's sake — 

And 'tis those times that bring me here to-day — 

LIV. 
" For long ago, when I was but a boy, 
I had a drearn, which haunts me ever since : 
I saw a thing fly strangely through the air, 
But not with wings, or horses at its front, 
But such a boisterous cloud from out its mouth, 
That made it faster go each breath it took. 
Next morn I told my dream to Willy Ray, 
The boaster of our village, who laughed loud, 



44 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

And said it was a railway- engine ; and 
Then I remembered on the eve before 
That Willy, who loved puffing forth more steam, 
Than truth's fair vapour, told the strangest tale 
Of railways melting all away in smoke. 
And so, good master, ever since my dream, 
I'd crave no better fate than once to feel 
Myself borne off at such a steamy rate. 

LV. 

" Ambition, Sir, is noble in its work, 
And mine so works that I must die or gain 
At last the wished for point, to feel myself 
In some snug corner of a railway truck. 
So pray you, master, take me where you go, 
I'll be your merriman or humble slave, 
Tear off the scalp of every Indian chief, 
Make love to all the Hindoos in the East, 
And swear no beauty half so fair as theirs ; 
And if they treat my master well, I'll vow 



AIXS WORTH S HEIR. 45 

No English lady holds the smallest claim 
Upon the handsome stranger's hand or heart. 

LVI. 
" You start, Sir Ernest, fear me not I heg, 
.More eyes than mine have seen and known your love, 
This sudden journey is the plot of foes, 
At least the influence of your father's heir ; 
Frown not to hear an humble man like me 
Prate of your brother and the Lady May. 
Your cheek is blanched, be patient for a while ; 
The devil holds a bag which soon will burst, 
Watch thou the mischief hatching well within. 
Come deeper in the shadow ; I have heard 
That walls have ears, so trees may have them too, 
And plots may counter-plotted be ; then hear 
While scenes are shifted, and the play goes on." 



46 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

LVII. 

The shades of twilight gather o'er the sky, 
And sink in deeper gloom the hazel dell, 
Save where the light reflected from some star, 
Which yet would heam serenely on the earth 
Like a fond eye in lingering gaze, all loath 
To turn away from that which loved it best. 
Beneath that light a lovely maiden stood, 
Scarce sixteen summers bloomed upon her life, 
Her hair fell low, in golden ripples soft, 
Pushed loosely from a face of faultless cast, 
And streaming o'er her snowy shoulders, fell 
In graceful curls along her beauteous form. 

LVIII. 
She held a wreath of violets in her hand, 
On which her tears now sparkled like the dew, 
And after looking long upon the flowers 
She cast it from her, murmuring the while, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 4 

| Go, senseless thing, no longer can thy spell 

Bind his light heart unto his playmate now, 

Is there no pride within my maiden hreast 

To crush the love that's lying there unclaimed ; 

The feeling all unmasked for him alone, 

As though no other could he worth the gift ? 

Can he he changed ? I was not always wont 

To loiter in this leafy dell alone, 

And now three days have passed since I have seen 

His face, or token of remembrance gained. 

LIX. 

I And yet, why do I hlame him, no, ah ! no, 

He is too noble far for falsehood's cloud, 

To cast a shadow on that nobleness. 

His voice is tender as in days of old, , 

His eyes seek mine with their same loving light, 

And surely there are many ways beside 

That speak of love unaltered by the lips. 

E'en yonder wild flower at this morning's dawn, 



4S AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Bearing its head in rapture to the sky, 
Breathed from its petals silent worship, deep, 
But now it droops as though its tender life 
Were dying out bereft of that sweet light. 
And so, when he is gone, my bosom's throne 
Feeling the void, seems but an empty thing, 
Aimless and sad ; but, oh ! when he returns, 
Hope springs afresh and joy ignites my heart. 
Go then, cold doubtings, like a sable pall 
You come between my vision and sweet faith, 
Screening the rays which she is sending forth, 
On which my soul should bask confidingly." 

LX. 
Is there instinct in the truthful heart 
That tells it of reciprocated love, 
And bids it hope even in the darkest hour 
When the loved object's worthy of its trust ? 
May started now, for whispering voices near 
Aroused her from her dreams to eager life, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 4 

Her bosom heaves, she sees her Ernest part 
With anxious brow from one hid in the shade, 
As though some conference of mighty weight 
Had taken place so close to where she stood. 

LXI. 
She called him back, but in a voice so weak, 
He heard it not, but passed more quickly on, 
With troubled face and gaze bent sadly down, 
In moody thought upon the starlit ground. 
Another figure now she sees depart, 
Tis Eob the Rover, so she calls again ; 
And he looks back, but waves his hand in haste 
And onward walks — then pauses — turns again, 
And seeing May alarmed stands eager still, 
Doffs high his cap, bows low, then goes his way. 

LXII. 
Tbe girl dismayed, again looked round, but nought 
Save grassy plains with stately trees, and that 



50 AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

High mansion of her father's met her view ; 

How cold it looked beneath the young moon's light, 

The ivy'd walls, the gables tall and grim, 

The marble statue o'er the open porch, 

All white and ghastly in the pallid gleam : 

She thought upon her father far away, 

And conscience smote her sore, for she deceived 

A parent ever kind to her and good. 

LXIII. 

Lord Elliott loved his fond and only child, 
And always wished to see her bright and glad ; 
So, deeming for her happiness, it was 
He pledged his honoured word to give her hand 
In marriage to a cousin, who possessed 
Lands equal to her own, and generous heart. 
How very little thought, the stately lord, 
His daughter meant not to fulfil his pledge. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. I 

LXIY. 

She loved young Dudley as a tender friend ; 
So Cousin Harry, when he was allowed 
The time by college holidays, would come 
An ever welcome guest to Elliott's board, 
Learning to like the frank and friendly girl, 
As brother likes a sister, and no more. 

LXY. 
When time wore on, and May could trust him well, 
She told the secret of her hidden love, 
And brought young Dudley to the hazel dell 
Where first he saw bright Alice, whom he vowed 
To him was fairer than his cousin May. 
And still the pair before the father's gaze 
Spoke tender words, and seemed so well content, 
As lulled to rest his fears, if fears he felt : 
Yet was the conscience of fair May distressed, 
And she would vow to tell her parent all ; 



52 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

But Harry laughed, and reasoned, using well 
The logic taught by mixing with the world. 

LXVI. 
Soon Dudley spoke of love to Alice, who 
Though feeling for him more than she confessed, 
Forbade him mention it to her again ; 
And when once more he breathed his passion, sh< 
All sad and tearful said, that they should part, 
And never gave to such caprice a name. 
Her lover then despairing e'er to gain 
Her wilful heart, in madness left his home 
To journey in a far-off stranger land, 
And there remains still seeking every change 
That yet might tear her image from its shrine. 

LXVII. 
And she, when he was gone, how did she feel ? 
Though still so proud, the bitter tears at night, 
The restless pillow, and the joyless morn, 
The day as listless and her heart as chill 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 53 

As if hope's sap had drained from out her life. 

At times she longed to pour from off her heart 

The secret of her lot, revealing that 

Which parted them, to hreathe into his ear 

A love as fervent as his own ; then came 

The chilling thought that he was gone : those words 

Resounded coldly in her wretched breast, 

Like some sad echo, " Ah ! .too late, too late !" 



All wondered why gay Alice seemed so changed, 
No longer now the song and merry laugh 
Pealed forth in music from her rosy lips, 
Those lips that still had worn a joyous smile, 
So altered now. Kind Ernest sought, with all 
His manly tenderness, to cheer and learn 
The secret of a sorrow but too plain 
To read upon her face, and often marked 
By those less watchful than her brother was ; 



54 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

But nought could wring from Alice word or sign 
Even to him. But once to May she spoke 
In part of her great grief, who never since 
Had dared to breathe a name that once had been 
A dear familiar sound. Ah ! often thus 
One little word can mar or make a life. 

LXIX. 
Young Ernest hastened from the hazel dell, 
Now followed close by Boderick ; who, alarmed 
Lest a wild quarrel might ensue, for well — 
Although his favorite sought his brother with 
A good intent — he knew that Walter's pulse 
Would never brook one pleading word, or hard. 
Yet Ernest dreamed not that his humble friend, 
Like a true sentinel on battle ground, 
Y\ T as watching o'er his life ; for one dull thought 
Alone possessed him — Walter ; that bright being 
So fair in manly beauty, whom he deemed 
In person one great type of faultless work — 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. i 

Could there be hidden in that graceful form 
So black a demon as his fancy shaped ? 

LXX. 

Not long he sought ; for Walter gaily came 
Along a shady path, scarce three yards thence, 
His brow all cloudless, and his face all frank, 
His greeting courteous, and his voice most sweet. 
Is this the villain Roderick painted him ? 
Oh ! foul suspicion ; no, so bright a thing 
Could have no malice in its fatal charms, 
And the high soul, in pity for the faults 
That lay within the glorious casket there, 
Could now weep tears of blood, if they would turn 
One grain of dross to purity and truth. 

LXXI. 

First, Ernest spoke ; unsteady was his tone, 
For sorrow quivered in each gentle word : 
" I sought you, brother, for too soon the day 



56 AINS WORTH S HEIR. 

Shall dawn upon us far away from this, 

And I am sad to leave the happy home 

To which, alas ! I may return no more. 

You look surprised ; well, call it folly, but 

A cold presentiment weighs downs my heart 

As though some evil hovered o'er my lot. 

Why does thy cheek blanch, Walter ? Surely thou, 

Who never loved me, wouldst not love me dead. 

But stay a moment ; do not turn away ; 

I crave one word, but it must be as if 

We still were children by our mother's knee. 



" Long, long ago, when childhood smiled around, 
And one dear presence brightened all our days — 
Our mother — then I loved a joyous child, 
Who seemed to me the fairest form I saw ; 
And when our angel went to her own home, 
The boy to me had dearer grown, although 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Our tastes were different, save in one respect, 
And that divided all our after years. 

LXXIII. 
"But, Walter, we are pausing now upon 
The threshold manhood opens for our use. 
You are the elder ; enter then the first. 
Behold, within that space the flag of hope 
Is hrightly waving. Seek it now, and win 
For Ainsworth's heir the glory and renown 
His fathers won of old ; and the fair maid, 
Who came upon thy aimless life, and mine, 
As a sweet saint beguiling care away, 
Now she, whom both must love, may yet be thine, 
For I have never dared to breathe the thought 
That is the essence of my earthly life. 

LXXIV. 
" How bright you look ! She well may love thee b« 
Of all the world, and love thee too, with pride. 



58 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

Thy form's replete with wondrous heauty rare, 
While I, alas ! am hut a cripple still. 
Go brother, friend ; pour out thy passion now, 
And look upon me as the thing who would 
Eesign his all to make thee worthier her. 
'Tis true I loved her long ; that she has been 
At times a star, but most of all a cloud, 
That ever turned to me in kindness still 
Its silver lining. Yes, alas ! a cloud 
Which now must darken all my future years ; 
But when the days shall come that bears us hence 
To far off climes, 'twill be the last to raise 
O'er Ernest Ainsworth in his native soil." 

LXXV. 
" Thou'st learned to flatter, Sir," cried Walter, while 
The bitter lines of satire marked his face ; 
" But thou art too romantic, whining boy, 
To dream thy wisdom should dictate to me. 
Ha ! pauper brother of a noble heir, 



AINSWORTH S HETR. 5 

Thou'st judged thyself, and rightly, cripple bom ; 
But now, rejected suitor, thus I scorn 
Thy tender friendship and thy coward love." 
He flung at Ernest's feet a glove, and trod 
With steady step a little space away. 

LXXVI. 
One moment Ernest gazed upon the thing 
So calm and lifeless at his trembling feet, 
As though a serpent lay within its folds, 
"Whose fiend-like spell was coiling round his heart, 
Stilling its throbbings, and arousing hate. 
But more than jealousy was struggling in 
That noble breast, as steadfastly he gazed 
Now all in sorrow on the glove of May. 

LXXVII. 
'Tis true, he looked upon it as a sign 
Of love for Walter ; and his own pure tale 
Of passion, deep but hopeless, should remain 



60 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Unsealed, unspoken, save to heaven alone. 
But the black plot of treachery and crime 
Eevealed by Koderick was too well confirmed 
By the small thing that lay before him there ; 
So, feeling nothing now but one wild hope 
To save his brother from a deep abyss, 
Followed him slowly to the hazel dell. 

LXXVIII. 
The twilight shadows dark and deeper grow, 
Yet fairer shines the silver queen of night ; 
And then the baffled girl sits down to weep, 
Within the stillness of the hazel dell. 
Not many minutes pass, when Pedro's bark, 
Like sweetest music, falls upon her ear. 
She deems her Ernest near — and, looking up 
In happy expectation — sees another. 
'Tis Walter, and his face is glowing with 
The consciousness of glad success. He kneels 
In graceful attitude before the feet 



AINSWOETH S HEIR. 



Of that pale -weeper, pouring out a tale 

Of warmest frenzy. May but turns aside 

And weeps the more, the more he pleads in vain. 



Then o'er and o'er he swears, and vows, and raves ; 

But gently, calmly, she rejects his suit, 

And, rising proudly, motions him away. 

Indignantly he sprung from bended knee, 

Yet his bold eyelids trembled 'neath her look — 

The calm, determined spirit breathing forth 

So quietly from out her azure orbs 

Cows all his strength, and masters all his will. 

But Walter could not long be quelled ; and soon, 

In frantic rage, he caught her trembling hand — 

As birds of prey might catch a fluttering dove — 

While burning passion melted from his lips, 

Seething within her brain, and wounding all 

The pure refinement of her guileless soul. 



62 AINSWORTHS HEIR. 

LXXX. 
Oh ! love, thou sweet refiner of our state, 
How much thou art belied in the mad fire 
That bums up all thy tenderness and balm. 
When Walter's storm subsided, well he felt 
The step he took was false and cowardly ; 
And so, retracing — but, like April days, 
All cloud and sunshine — murmured softly forth : 
" Oh, May, can love like mine rejected be, 
When smiles of thine are sunshine to my soul ? 
When I would pluck the grass on which thou'st trod, 
And worship it, as though my heart could live 
Upon the thought that it so near thee was. 
Thou' It say that heaven shall yet avenge a creed 
So impious. Let it be ; I all resign 
To call thee wife. ! beauteous May, retract 
Thy chilling words, for, girl, thou art my fate ! 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

LXXXI. 
" Nay, start not so, nor vent thy bitter scorn 
On him who can avenge it. Thou dost think 
Thyself the chosen of a fool, who yet 
Ne'er raised his mind above his musty books ; 
But, sweetest maid, thou'lt never be his bride, 
For I would tear thee from his crooked arms, 
Even at the altar's step, though it should rend 
Thy spirit from its mould. May ! good May ! 
Thou olive branch, that ever waved above 
My chequered lot, to keep me e'en at peace 
With hatred and with pride, say thou'lt be mine, 
And all this world shall turn to Paradise ; 
Or frown again, and hell shall ope her gates 
To close for ever on thy soul and mine. 
Nay, ne'er repulse me, for I vow 'tis vain, 
Thou'lt be my bride if skies above us keep." 



64 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

LXXXII. 
He flung her from him, rushing madly forth 
With deep low curses on his youthful lips, 
And bitter envy poisoning his rest. 
May, like a frightened fawn, looked quickly round, 
As though to seek some shelter from the storm ; 
And, seeing Pedro eyeing her as if 
In silent sympathy, the harassed girl 
Fell on his neck, as though she now had found 
At least in him a true and steadfast friend. 
She did not see the tender look bent o'er 
Her drooping form until a hand clasped hers, 
And the dear face her heart ached to behold 
Was now upturned to hers, all still and white, 
With deep emotion on his noble brow. 

LXXXIII. 
May could have clung to him as if his arm 
Could shield her from all sorrow and despair ; 



ATNSWORTH S HEIR. 65 

But, blushing deeply, started fast away, 
Forcing her hand from out her lover's hold, 
But paused delighted, now, to see her glove, 
Which dropped from out his breast ; her questioning eyes 
Sought his, and there read strange reproach. She said, 
" I left that yesterday, while gathering flowers 
On yonder bank ; and thou wert here, although 
We did not chance to meet. Say, was it so ?" 
Her eyes again sought his, and love and joy 
Shot out to hers, whose lips, wreathed in a smile 
All bright and glowing as a noontide ray 
Falling upon a chilling bar of ice, 
Their melting hearts let loose their warmest tide 
To flow one moment from the soul of each, 
Which carried doubt away in one embrace 
Tender and sweet : no words were needed now. 

LXXXIV. 

Long Alice knew, and often grieved 'twas so, 
That May to each her brothers yet would prove 



66 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

The thing to wither, or to crown one life ; 
For when the germ of love first sprang within 
Her own pure breast, the instinct, ever true, 
Of maiden modesty had taught her that 
May's shy reserve her deepest feelings cloaked ; 
And she would pray, and murmur o'er and o'er, 
" Oh, Ernest ! brother of my loving heart, 
May thy suit prosper, and thy life be fair, 
While the usurper of thy rightful power 
May rest in freedom on his broken reed ; 
And, mighty heaven, give now thy bounteous aid, 
To guard true virtue from the snares of vice." 

LXXXV. 

She often trembled, for she feared the hate 
That might ensue when Walter learned the fact 
That May preferred the youngest to the heir, 
And dreaded much his hard determined will 
Might crush each obstacle that crossed his path 
To the bright object of the passion which 



aiksworth's heie. 67 

He could not conquer, or lie 'would subdue. 

She trembled, for she knew the desperate heart, 

Made doubly so by coldness and disdain, 

Would give no check to vengeance, but would strike 

In secret deeply to the victim's breast. 

LXXXVI. 
He who had every whim from childhood's hour 
So pampered, now could never bear to see 
What most he coveted possessed by one 
Whom most he hated, yet whom most he feared. 
He would not think of May as Ernest's bride, 
Lest he too soon might show the vicious sting 
Now hidden deep, but ready for its work, 
And so alarm what most he tried to hide, 
Suspicion where he meant to deal the blow. 

LXXXYII. 
Long May and Ernest lingered in the dell, 
With the bright love-light on the face of each, 
f2 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



As though no greater boon the world could give 
Than breathing side by side in silent bliss. 
At length he said, " This little glove of thine 
Shall treasured be through many happy hours, 
For drawing from thy lips the magic words 
That makes a very heaven of my life ; 
Thou'st loved the cripple whom thy kindness cheered, 
And now thou'lt bless him with this gentle hand. 



LXXXVIII. 

" May ! sweet May ! too fully I'm repaid 
For all the silent worship of those years ; 
The doubts, the fears, the bitterness of woe 
That racked my bosom, when I thought you felt 
Nothing but pity for the cripple boy. 
For as you grew from childhood's sunny prime, 
To burst more radiant into girlhood's bloom, 
You learned to scorn those trifles one by one 
That made the greatness of my aimless life ; 



AINS WORTH S HEIR. ( 

But now, oh ! now, too well am I x-epaid, 
No grief for me since thou art all mine own. 

LXXXIX. 
" Yea, even this parting is a happiness, 
For when afar I'll think of only thee, 
Which thy dear presence now prevents ; for 'tis 
Too great a joy to press upon the heart 
That never throbbed with such a weight before. 
May, tell it me again ; thou lov'st me ? Yes ! 
I read it in those eyes, those blushing cheeks ; 
Together we have plighted troth, and now 
No other soul can ever call thee wife, 
And e'en thy father will forgive us yet ; 
So let not fears a shadow throw upon 
The brightness of our hopes ; no power on earth 
Can part us now, dear May, my hearfs sweet life !" 



70 AINSWORTH S HEIK. 

xc. 

He said ; when suddenly a laugh, so hoarse 
And fiend-like, rattled through the dell, as seemed 
Like some weird devil scoffing at their plans 
Of future happiness. The girl turned pale, 
And saw her lover start ; but closer clung 
To Ernest, who, to soothe and calm her mind, 
Though strangely puzzled by the sound himself, 
Smiled at her folly, while he searched around, 
But nothing could discover, save some leaves 
And branches broken from the hazels near. 

XCI. 
All fears forgotten in renewed discourse, 
May placed in Ernest's hand a letter, which 
A foreign post-mark bore. Lord Elliott spent 
Some time abroad, and now the letter came 
Eenewing the unwelcome tidings to 
His gentle child, all stern yet tenderly, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 7 

That she should wed young Harry Dudley soon. 

" Wed with another !" Ernest cried aloud, 

" No, no, sweet May ; let cousin Harry's fate 

Be linked with other destinies than thine, 

My promised hride. Why smiles my little May ?" 

XCII. 
" I smile, because my merry cousin long 
Has chosen for himself your sister, who 
His suit would willingly accept, but they 
Have had a quarrel, which I fondly hope 
Will yet be righted, for their hearts are true."' 
" Ha ! is it so ? I thought the mystic maid 
Had some such secret from her brother, whom 
She calls Confessor. But now, tell me how 
This youthful fairy found her handsome mate." 

XCIII. 
li Simply, my Ernest, by superior charms ; 
For when good Harry, my intended lord — 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



At least the lord intended by my sire — 
Came on a visit to my father's hall, 
With due permission to pursue his suit, 
The inexperienced youth had such bad taste 
As to prefer your sister's charms to mine. 
Oh ! I have told my father o'er and o'er 
I loved my cousin merely as a friend ; 
But then my parent laughed, and loudly swore 
'Twas just a friend like him I ought to love. 



" And when, still bolder grown, I bid him think 

Whether another might not win my heart, 

He laughed again, and said, " young ladies' hearts 

Went with their hands, or some one was to blame.'" 

No good can come of this deceit ; I fear 

My father's wrath, so many things I dread. 

And, oh ! this parting. Hush ! what sound is that ? 

The village clock. Alas ! how late it is. 

Depart now, Ernest ; I must haste away. 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 73 

But why art thou so pale ? An hour ago 
You radiant were with happiness and hope." 

XCV. 
" Oh ! teach me, May, with all thy woman's strength, 
To part from one much dearer than my life. 
Is it not very, very hard, to rend 
Those loving links that hut one simple hour 
Had twined around us ? May, forgive me now ; 
My love for thee has made me weak indeed." 
Fondly they parted ; smiling, bade adieu, 
All happy in the consciousness of joy, 
In certainty of sweet reunion soon. 

XCVI. 
Deep shadows gathered o'er the silver stars 
That studded o'er the azure sky, and hid 
The moon's soft light, as midnight issued forth 
In sable robes to walk upon the earth. 
Fit hour for vice, that never feels repose ; 



74 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

And its tall form stalked grimly from the bed 

Of Walter. Like a ghost it crept along 

The winding corridors, until it stood 

Beside the couch of Ernest, who at last 

Had sunk to rest in happiness and peace. 

The form bends o'er him now, and breathes but scarce 

Perceptibly, while quietly it steals 

The glove that lay beneath his pillow soft ; 

Then, gazing on the sleeper in such hate 

As blotted out the lineaments of him 

Whom Ernest so admired, then Walter moved 

Away in triumph at his plot's success. 

XCVII. 
Next morn, when Ernest missed the glove of May, 
The truth ran through him like a flash of light ; 
And all determined now to hide his fears, 
Lest he should give his brother vantage ground, 
He grew more wary of his secret foes. 
He dreaded most for Mav, when hour on hour 



AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

Lagged slowly on, and she had not appeared 
Upon their trysting place. Emboldened now 
With deep anxiety, he ventured near 
Her stately mansion, hut no sound or sign 
Of her loved fonn appeared upon his sight. 

XCVIII. 
His true companion stood beside bim there, 
Gazing upon his master wistfully, 
Who, with a sudden thought, like that which rose 
In bygone days, which Pedro knew full well, 
For — watching still his master — as he wrote 
One hurried line, and tied it round his neck 
(Where oft May found her little notes of old), 
He bounded, conscious of the trust he held, 
Seeking for her who was so soft and kind, 
Until he came within a tangled copse 
Half ivyed o'er, where he had often found, 
In times gone past, the dear expectant girl. 



76 AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

XCIX. 
A sharp low whistle, which he knew alone 
Peculiar to his master when he called 
Him ever to his side, now sounded near, 
And the next moment o'er his nohle head 
A cloak was folded, and the little note 
Was taken from his collar, while in vain 
Poor Pedro struggled, till a low sweet voice, 
But too familiar, fell upon his ear, 
While slowly fold by fold revealed the face 
Known well, but little liked, of Ainsworth's heir. 
It took not long to read that single line, 
And Walter's glance ran o'er it while he said — 
' ; For him 'twere better thought had found no voice. 
Tis as I guessed ; an assignation, and 
They'll meet this evening in the hazel dell : 
'Tis right ; they'll have more lovers than they think. 
Now go, good dog ; 'tis well thy tongue is dumb, 
Else would'st thou blab unto my rival foe."' 



AINSWOETH S HEIR. 
C. 

As Ernest with a measured step returned, 
Having received May's answer, he was caught 
In suddenness, and forced beneath the shade 
Of the old lime trees growing thickly there. 
'Twas Roderick Roberts, and he raised his hand 
In token of a silence good for all. 
A few low words he whispered in his ear — 
" Sir, go not near the hazel dell to night, 
There's danger prowling there for her and thee. 
One hour from hence I bring the Lady May 
Here to this haunted bower of gorse and fern, 
Where, if bad fairies can their revels keep, 
"Will do less damage than the spirits which 
Are working mischief in the hazel dell." 

CI. 
True to his promise, Roderick led the way 
By some few yards of her so late a child, 



78 AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

But now to lovely woman grown ; for she 

Put all aside for hirn, her chosen one. 

" Sweet Lady May, forgive an humble friend, 

But one who loved you dearly when a babe," 

Said Roderick, as he whirled his cap about, 

Not awkwardly, but with an anxious air ; 

" And if my faithfulness dare make so bold, 

I crave thee give Sir Ernest now thy hand, 

If thou would'st ever link thy fate to his, 

For there is danger lurking o'er thy path. 

Nay, weep not, lady ; he is worthy more 

Than e'en this confidence, so great, of thine. 

Thou' It soothe her now, good master, while I keep 

A watch around, for reckless foes are near." 

CII. 

How well could plead the lips that through long years 
Had worshipped her in silence and in truth, 
That she would give the sacred right of love 
To be her shield from sorrow and from harm. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

And did the maiden listen to the voice 

That found an echo in her tender breast — ■ 

That voice without whose tone the chords of hope 

Would he within her torn and desolate ? 

Ah ! yes, she listened with her hand in his, 

And Roderick read upon the face of each 

A deeper joy than he had seen before. 

While happy tones and blushes, smiles and tears, 

Reveal the purpose of each faithful heart. 

cm. 
A week had scarcely passed from that sweet mom, 
When all the quiet villagers were roused 
To loudest tumult, for the loss of her 
Who was their friend and benefactress kind. 
And Ernest heard the startling tidings with 
A fiery heart, but cool, determined mind, 
Keeping close watch on Walter, who declared 
He would avenge so black and foul a deed. 
So days passed o'er, and still the gentle May 



80 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

Was missing from her home. Her father came 
In wild distraction to his castle walls, 
Seeking the dearest treasure of his wealth. 

CIV. 
His wife, who daily spent upon her knees 
Much of her time in prayer and solitude, 
Nor taking interest in her only child, 
Was roused in new born life to blank dismay 
For loss of her she ne'er had missed before. 
Amid this panic, Roderick's sleepless wit 
Was sharpened, while he kept a ceaseless watch 
With Ernest, like two strange and mystic things, 
Prowling for ever in the stilly night, 
Seeing what was invisible to all 
Save those whose sight was quickened by the light 
Of love as truthful as the watchers felt. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

cv. 

One night, amid its darkness, they descried 
A form, perhaps more dusky than the time, 
Crouched low amid the fern ; it slyly peer'd 
Far in the distance, where two others lay 
As waiting, hut all muffled and disguised. 
One moment Roderick paused ; the next he held 
The figure in the fern with dangerous grasp, 
While Ernest gagged the struggling villain well, 
And tore from him, what riveted his gaze, 
A thing too long familiar ; 'twas the glove, 
The missing glove of May ! Bribes, promises, 
And threats, were used to win the ruffian o'er, 
But that it was a symbol of success 
Could not be wrung from out his craven lips. 

CVI. 
They bound the struggling captive, but now felt 
A loss where they should hide him ; not within 



82 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Lord Ainsworth's hall, lest Ainsworth's vicious heir 

Should be forewarned of superior power. 

And so, forgetting everything but her 

Whom they should save, or shed their life's last drop, 

They led him to Lord Elliott's home ; and he, 

Feeling instinctively the captive wretch 

Some way connected with his missing one, 

Kept silent until Ernest told him all, 

Even his passion for his lovely child ; 

To which the father hearkened in dismay, 

Cursing his offspring, vowing vengeance deep 

Upon her guilty head, and hated choice. 

CVII. 
Midnight was chiming, when upon the sound 
Came hurried footsteps through the spacious room, 
Where sat Lord Ainsworth, Alice, and the heir. 
Nearer they came, and each one started up, 
For the proud Elliott stood before his foe ! 
But pale and humble now, with nerveless arm 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. ! 

Hung by his side in helpless misery. 

Close on his step, with white and ghastly face, 

Came Ernest, hearing on his breast the form 

Of her he loved so tenderly, who lay 

Cold and insensible to joy or woe ; 

And placed her in the arms of Alice, who, 

Half wild with terror, chafed her chilly hands. 

CVIII. 
One glance from Ernest shot on Walter's face, 
Who, like a vulture from his prey repelled, 
Sprang at his rival's throat in deadly hate. 
But Ernest, braver, stronger than the thing 
Foaming with envy and with blinded rage, 
Conquered at last, and Walter's quivering form 
Before him lay, one foot upon his breast. 
Lord Ainsworth, stunned in horror at the brawl, 
Looked on like one scarce wakened from a dream, 
Till Ernest turned, and told him that his heir 
Was the vile wretch who stole the gentle May. 

a 2 



84 AINSWOETH S HEIE. 

CIX. 

Sweet May, now quivering with returning life, 

Looked wildly round, then hounded to the side 

Of Ernest. Clinging closely there, she sohhed — 

" I'll never part thee more ; no, Ernest, no. 

Ah ! sirs, forgive me, for I am his wife." 

A short sharp cry ran through the vaulted room 

As Walter rushed in madness from the scene, 

While May, all tearful, knelt hefore the feet 

Of haughty Elliott, in whose working face 

The strife of bitterness and love was stamped. 

He gazed upon her upturned pleading face, 

Those deep dark eyes that spoke far more than words ; 

The small clenched fingers, and the wedding ring, 

Whose fatal circle was her only fault ; 

He looked on Ernest, who had twined his arms 

Around the pallid heing by his side, 

As though to save her from her father's wrath. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 85 

CX. 

And now strange memories of the olden times 
Throng in his breast from out the blighted past, 
Softening a moment all its rugged soil, 
Carrying away its anger and disdain, 
And leaving nothing but the chastened heart 
Where dwelt the freshened lineaments of her, 
His first, last love ; for Ernest's youthful face 
Bore likeness to the woman he had loved. 
He gazed awhile, and then he murmured forth, 
But in a quivering voice, as one who fought 
A desperate battle with a flood of tears — 

CXI. 
" Unduteous one, no longer in my heart 
Shall blind affection call thee child of mine." 
He ceased, for Ainsworth's voice arose in grief — 
" Stay, stay, proud foe ; although thy one sweet flower 
Has twined its tendrils round the younger branch 



86 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

Of the high tree where hatred ever hung ; 

Yet, like a lily, she is here unstained, 

And, though a wife, true daughter of thy house, 

For Elliott's arms shall never need to hlush, 

Emblazoned with the quart'rings of my sires." 

Struggling awhile with anger, fear, and love, 

May's father louder cried in fiercer scorn — 

" Hence, wily Lord, for all thy coward race 

Shall long be cursed by Elliott's direst hate, 

And she who now is torn from off my hearth 

Shall yet regret she left a father's home. 

And, mark you, haughty foe, the time shall come 

"When he so much beloved, your boasted heir, 

Shall sting you deeply, as I now am stung ; 

For he, a shame-bom reptile of the earth, 

In crawling to his power, shall crush thine own 1" 

And then he rushed in madness to the roof 

Made desolate and drear for loss of May. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



CXII. 



There was a moated fort in Ainsworth's park, 

Where village gossips say the fairies dwell. 

Here Ernest built for Alice and his bride 

A wild sequestered bower, where roses with 

The scented wood-bine interlaced, o'erarched 

With a thick canopy of ivy leaves ; 

A spot which well might be the secret home 

Of merry fays, to keep their revels in. 

Here jojtfuHy the gentle ladies spent 

With book or work the tranquil noontide hour, 

Glad in its solitude ; sometimes they talked 

Of happy by-gone scenes, more often watched 

The rise and fall of angry billow's foam, 

Which in the distance moved in ceaseless power ; 

Or sketched the stately ships as on they passed, 

Deep in the placid bosom of the bay. 



88 AINSWOETH S HEIR. 

CXIII. 

And now, when autumn had his mantle cast 
O'er the next month to winter, there they sat 
In lively converse, until Alice said — - 
" Sweet sister mine, I pray thee tell me now 
The little mystery of thy glove and flight. 
You blush. Ah ! well, it is a painful task ; 
But, dear one, he can never hold a place, 
Even in a sister's breast, who acts the part 
Of grovelling cowardice. My father's frown 
Forbade me speak of it to him ; indeed, 
I'd better like you'd tell it me yourself." 

CXIV. 
'■' Alice, my sister, 'tis a painful thing 
To tear the veil aside which kindly hides 
Unseemly marks of those so near of kin ; 
But well I know thy tender bosom feels 
More love for Ernest— this has been my fault, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 89 

And Walter's sad misfortune ; this I learned 

In part from my experience. But now list. 

I loved my Ernest from fair childhood's morn, 

But Walter feared, alas ! who felt for me 

A wild infatuation. He one eve 

Found in the hazel dell the glove, which was 

A point gained for a quarrel. This our friend 

Good Roderick interposed that day. How well 

Do I remember every moment when 

The pent-up love of years gushed from our souls, 

And, in exchanging vows, we felt for once 

A bliss, a joy, that seemed of heaven alone ! 

CXV. 
" Oh ! Alice, Alice, have you ever felt 
The one great throb that gives your after life 
New hope, new vigour, though your heart had found 
What it had longed for through long lonely years ? 
Thy cheek is blanched, dear sister. Oh ! forgive 
That the sweet memory of such happy hours 



90 AINSWOKTH S HEIR. 

Should make me cruel in my selfish love. 
But to my tale. That night the glove was stolen 
From Ernest, which confirmed all Roderick's fears, 
Who, urging me to wed, at length prevailed ; 
And scarce five days from that hore witness to 
The act which crowned with joy my life since then. 
Yes ! I became a wife that morn whose eve 
Brought me a missive, which I learned too soon 
Was forged by Walter, praying me to come 
But for a moment to the hazel dell. 

CXYI. 
" Full of glad trust in Ernest's tenderness, 
I sought the trysting place, where ruffian arms 
Were cast around me ; but, alas ! the thought 
Of so much violence makes me shudder yet. 
Suffice, they bore me to a strange lone house, 
Where first I saw the wretches' forms ; but they 
Were new to me. I craved, begged, vowed, and wept, 
Distraught with terror, but they heeded not. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 91 

Three days passed o'er, when Walter, hated now, 
Was kneeling at my feet ; in vain I prayed, 
While he but boasted of his fiendish plot, 
Exulting in my loathing and alarm ; 
The glove should be the fatal symbol to 
Bus paid companions, and a bark should bear 
Me to a foreign land, where he alone 
Should be the master of my wretched fate. 

CXVII. 

" That night, when all was still, two hours before 

His demon purpose, with this diamond ring 

I cut the window of my prison, and 

Thrust forth a lock I tore from off my head, 

In hopes such clue might lead to my escape. 

x\las ! 'twas fruitless ; and they dragged me forth, 

Trembling in horror, wild in friendless grief. 

My foot was on the boat ; strong aims outstretched, 

I heard a voice speak low and tenderly, 

And fell upon my husband's throbbing heart. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 



Oil ! how I bless my faithful humble friend, 

Dear Boderick, who, with never- failing wit, 

airoiftl 1 
First won the secret of the base intent 

From an accomplice in the wicked plot. 

Thus was my marriage, thus its happy end." 



CXVIII. 
"Oh ! darling sister !" murmured Alice now, 
" Forgive the heart which never knew before 
That all things lovely could not be its own. 
How changed he seems ; how moody, pale, and sad : 
Mayhap remorse may call sweet virtue back." 
" Pray heaven it shall ; for, Alice, yesternight, 
My heart being filled with those past bitter wrongs, 
I had a dream most beautiful, though strange. 
But wrap thee well, the wind is growing chill, 
And the sky lowers with a threatening cloud ; 
Yet we are sheltered, and my mood is that 
Which would detain me later in this bower 
To tell thee of my vision. Listen now. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 9 J 

CXIX. 

"I thought 'twas evening, and the summer smiled 
Upon ripe corn fields, as they shook their heads, 
Waving their golden plumes heneath the sun, 
Whose rippling rays streamed on the feathery grain 
Of the rich harvest's hloom. I stood in joy 
Upon an emerald plain to watch his beams, 
Glowing and bright, fade into mellow shades, 
When like a monarch, weary of his state, 
He looked for rest, while sheets of tinted lines 
Formed a rich canopy above his head. 

cxx. 

" A form arose far in the distant space, 

Eeplete with charms, all lavished from the wealth, 

Glorious as endless, of the vales whose light 

Can know no shadow, waning, or eclipse. 

No mortal she who thus was here arrayed 

In heavenly vestments, for her radiant robe, 



94 ainsworth's heie. 

Which rolled in glittering showers to her feet, 
Like that of angels ; on her brow she wore 
One sparkling star, which, traced in diamonds bright, 
Revealed her name — a sweet and holy name. 

CXXI. 

" Within her hand she held a glowing vase, 
And from it rose an essence which in heaven 
Was first distilled ; its faintest breath gave forth 
A life eternal. Shrinkingly I gazed, 
While a strange thrill I never felt before 
Shot through each pulse. I longed to clasp that form, 
But back she waved me, as more deeply burned 
The radiating gems whose light said ' Faith.' 
Yes, this was Faith, and that within her hand 
Was bliss — two drops from out the Godhead's fount 
Of living waters, full of joy divine. 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 95 

CXXII. 

" I sought to speak ; she raised her hand of light, 

Pointing away through meadows of the past, 

Where first I saw a gay and lovely child 

Bounding along a vista rich with flowers 

Which, while he gathered, placed within the lap 

Of her who gave him heing. I knew the child 

Was Innocence, his mother Joy, who loved 

To see him sporting in the freshness of 

His own young heart ; I heard her pray and breathe 

A blessing on him. Then my softened soul 

Remembered her who watched my infant years, 

And, as I thought of her, Faith smiled again. 

She bade me turn, and I beheld the form 

Of Ernest, but in death arrayed, who now 

Was lost to earth and me. My heart grew hard, 

I blamed my bitter fate, and looked in scorn 

To chide the heavenly vision, but it wept. 



96 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

CXXIII. 

" Then, gaping wide between us two, I saw 
A yawning gulf, from whence arose foul fiends ; 
And tottering on its brink I stood, while sight 
And sound were swallowed in the dreadful depth 
Of horrors, black and terrible. I cried 
In mad despair on Faith for help, but, oh ! 
She heard me not ; then one true heartfelt prayer 
Burst from the fervour of my sinking soul, 
And the deep chasm became a verdant plain. 

CXXIY. 
" Half resting on a rosy cloud appeared 
Another form, robed in a cloth of gold, 
Bespangled o'er with gems ; the sapphire's blaze 
Blended with pearls, the topaz shone amid 
The rarest amethysts, each jewel with 
The purest radiants, decked her smiling brow ; 
Upon her breast reposed a gentle dove, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 97 

With plumage soft and white, which she caressed. 

I felt the wondrous beauty of that form 

Could but belong to Hope ; the bird was Peace. 

cxxv. 
" Sweet Hope then bade me kiss the lovely bird, 
Which, as I did, she stretched her jewelled hand 
And rested it upon my trembling head ; 
My heart expanded, for I felt as though 
A pulse was sent from them to enter there. 
I, glorying in my new-found joy, then raised 
My eyes to Faith in blind security ; 
But she, still cold, bade me go further on. 
And then a ragged urchin at my feet 
Was crouched all humbly, one whose wrinkled face, 
Upturned to mine, was deeply pitted o'er 
With marks of poverty ; sharp hunger's blade 
Had hacked its features till I scarce could trace 
The likeness of our Maker, who had framed 
Man in His image. It is true that sin 



98 AINSWORTH S HZIR. 

Can make our own deformity ; that souls, 
By crimes polluted, spread their cankers far ; 
But 'twas not sin that marr'd the tearful face 
Upturned to mine — 'twas want and misery. 

CXXVI. 
" I spurned the urchin from my path, and shrank 
In loathing from its touch, forming a space 
Between us two, then fled ; hut, oh ! to find 
That gentle Faith was gone. I called in vain, 
Until I sought again the pallid face 
Of weeping Charity. I caught it now, 
And hugged it to my hosom, shedding tears 
Of pity and affection on its hreast. 
The tears thus shed swelled till they grew in heaven 
The substance of bright hope ; then Faith outspread 
Her downy pinions, and I found therein 
The pleading form of Charity enshrined, 
Who, claiming me as kindred, prayed s^eet Faith 
Would ope the gates of Paradise, to give 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. £ 

One transient glimpse unto my soul ; but death 
Had not released its mortal captive yet. 

CXXVII. 
" Then Hope and Faith led me along sweet plains 
Of mellow fruit, whose luscious juice my lips 
Drank freely of ; bright citron groves and flowers 
Blended in harmony, fadeless and pure. 
Above was arched a bow of various hues, 
On which reclined the calm and gentle brow 
Of Charity, who held a snowy wand 
Half hid within the azure of the sky, 
Yet seen far in the distance, like a thought 
But half remembered : fair yet indistinct, 
It parted clouds, and music issued forth, 
Bearing the burden of a song of praise. 
But, as my soul seemed melting with delight 
Into a state of thrilling ecstasy, 
I woke to find each heavenly charm dispelled." 



100 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

CXXVIIL 
" A meaning dream was thine, sweet May, which tells 
Without true Charity all other gifts 
Are worthless. Hark ! Oh ! what a dreadful peal. 
Come, let us hasten home ; the coming storm 
Has scared the very cattle from the field, 
And the wild sea is rising mountains high, 
Although the winds still slumher in their caves." 
Another peal ; the artillery of heaven 
Thunders in echoes from the hollow rocks, 
And sudden lightning lights up all the skies. 

CXXIX. 
Near Ainsworth's castle reefs of dangerous rocks 
Well known to sailors on that dreaded coast, 
Lay buried now beneath the seething tide. 
A rapid change was coming on the heavens, 
And still the sky was not yet overcast ; 
But in the distance, on the horizon's verge, 



AIXSWORTH S HEIE. ll 

Eises a spot which darkens hy degrees, 

And widely spreads, till it becomes a cloud 

Charged with the thunders of a sudden storm, 

Prescient of danger, in the ocean's trough. 

Upon the waste of briny billows dark, 

A stately vessel tosses like a leaf 

Before the breath of heaven's mighty power. 

CXXX. 

Though fog surrounded, on she speeds for shore, 
But the strong wind has caught her in her course, 
And now she nears the dreaded spot of death ; 
Nearer, still nearer, till one mighty lash 
Has driven her helpless on the fatal rocks. 
She shivers, creaks, and sways, the thunders peal, 
And vivid lightnings leap from out the sky, 
Mingled with wild despairing cries for help. 
But down she sinks, until her battered stern 
Alone keeps rearing o'er the angiy surge ; 
Then it at last ejects its living freight, 



102 AINSWOKTH S HE IK. 

While winds and waves in dreadful concert roar, 
As if rejoicing to receive their prey. 

CXXXI. 
A woman's form was borne upon the crest 
Of a huge billow nearing now the beach, 
Where Ainsworth's people gazed upon the scene 
In deep and silent horror. Koderick saw 
The floating form, still wafted steadily, 
While her long hair fell back like seaweed dark. 
Brave and true hearted, quick as thought he leaped 
Into the tide and fought his dangerous way, 
Buffeting boldly till his hand entwined 
The raven locks. One struggle — help ! a rope ; 
They sink, they rise. Hark ! now he hears a voice 
Piercing the clamour of the tempest's rage. 
'Tis May's. She hails him on — good courage yet. 
Again he struggles, and again her tones 
Sound in his breast, until he reaches land. 
And then she kneels beside them, while her arms 



AINSWOETH S HEIR. 103 

Support Lis Lead, and tears of tLankful joy 
Fall for a moment on Lis pallid face. 

CXXXII. 
Amid tLe Lustling of tLe tenantry, 
And servants Lusy rescuing tLe crew, 
Or Lelping passengers as Lest tLey migLt, 
Leading tLem safely to tLe castle, wLicL 
Was ready as an Lospitable Lome, 
Was Lome tLe woman to Lord Ainswortb's Lalls. 
SLe was of tall and very stately mien, 
A dark-faced foreigner, witL eyes of fire, 
WitL more of care tLan age upon Ler brow ; 
Quick and intelligent, but silent, deep, 
Prying, yet jealous of Ler dignity, 
And void of all that gentle breeding gives. 

CXXXIII. 
'Twas marked, ere many days were passed, tbat sLe, 
So cold to otLers, trembled 'neatL tLe gaze 



104 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Of Walter, while her eyes shot forth to him 

A strange fond light ; her marble cheeks oft dyed 

To deepest crimson at his lightest word ; 

And when at first she saw Lord Ainsworth, death 

Seemed to congeal the life blood in her veins. 

A deep, dark mystery, like a chilling mist, 

Hung oyer her inscrutable and cold. 



CXXXIV. 

A sullen wind is moaning through the trees, 
As o'er the sorrows of a ruined world. 
Winter has come, and, like the hopes of man 
That rest on earth, the leaves are falling fast, 
Swept by each gust, and whirled away in air 
From their parental source, and soon became 
A transient skeleton, — then earth again. 
Upon the borders of an ancient wood, 
The outskirts of a broad and fair demesne, 
Close by a war-worn keep of other days, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. ] 

Which still held out against the storms of time, 
And still displayed the haughty Ainsworth's arms, 

cxxxv. 

Half hid with ivy, nettles, gorse, and fern, 

A solitary sportsman might he seen, 

Eifle in hand, hut with a listless eye, 

Like one whose heart was hardly in the sport. 

'Twas Walter, watching for a fallow-deer, 

A straggler which had overleaped its bounds, 

Like his own passion in his love for May. 

"Where was she now ? even at his father's house, 

Perhaps with Ernest, interchanging vows, 

Or laughing at the frenzy of his love. 

CXXXVI. 
Oh ! solitude, thou bringest back again 
With dread fidelity each word and deed 
That can add fuel to the jealous mind. 
Was it the missing deer that stirred the leaves ? 



106 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

No ; 'twas an owlet, hooting as in scorn 
Upon the old escutcheon of his house, 
Which, as he gazed upon and read its scroll, 
As if he never yet had seen the words, 
He felt a presage, and turned deadly pale. 

CXXXVII. 
The sculptured crest a hand and dagger bore, 
Emblems of those which — from a conquered Dane — 
An Ainsworth, the first founder of his house, 
Cut with a sword-sweep at a single blow, 
In Mercia, when he rode the Paynim down ; 
And, under the supporters of the shield, 
Two blood-stained falcons proper, beaked and belled, 
In Saxon characters the legend ran, 
Nunc junior prior — " Now the younger's first." — 
" And so he is, by heaven, but shall not be ! " 
Thought "Walter, with the rising blood of Cain ; 
" Or let me ever be what I am now, 
A cripple's laughing stock, and woman's fool. 



AINS WORTH S HEIR. 
CXXXVIII. 

' ' My brother ! would I could deny such claims ; 

Nature almost disdains the tie of blood 

Which prompted us to battle from our birth, 

And marked him for a warning to the world. 

Tis true that he resembles our good sire 

In the soft outline of his boyish mien, 

But not like me, in intellect and fire, 

Heir of his mind and of his fortunes too : 

'Tis true our mother bore a stainless name, 

But if degenerate minds and puny frames 

Keveal the changeling, we have changelings here.' 

OXXXIX. 

Was it the owl again that laugh he heard, 
Or some creation of his heated brain ? 
Not so ; the sound came borne upon the wind. 
As through the parted branches of the shrubs 
One hasty look, intensified by hate, 



10S AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Kevealed enough, for it sufficed to show 

A shape like Ernest's, and a form like May's. 

CXL. 
Oh ! beautiful, and soft, and loving May, 
Little thou knowest all thy charms have done, 
Or what that guileless laughter will produce, 
Heard by the demon of a jealous mind. 
One instant, and the sight forsook his eyes, 
The power of darkness seemed to settle round, 
And then he heard the merry laugh again, 
And smiled a bitter and a meaning smile. 

0, Cain ! thy very blood is coursing now 
Through these rebellious veins and that wild heart, 
For in the moment of his direst hate 
He feels his loathed foe within his power. 
Xow is the favourite moment for the fiend 
To do his work, and he will do it well ; 



AINSWOKTH S HEIK. 

No deadlier hate than Walter's ever hurried 
Into the life hlood of the heart's deep core — 
No fiercer love e'er fed a lover's fires, 
Or seared the conscience with its jealous brand. 

CXLII. 
One moment, and with deadly weapon raised, 
Fatal of aim, the marksman of his time, 
"Whose shot no life had ever yet escaped, 
Had fired like lightning, and the form at once, 
Shot to the heart, leaped high into the air 
With outstretched arms, and then lay motionless. 
Swift as the wind, the murderer fled amain 
To where his victim lay, to glut his eyes 
With a last look of his detested foe. 
There lay the dead, but with a quiet smile, 
As if the soul had fled with joy from earth — 
But not the corpse of him he hoped to find. 



110 AINSWORTH S HEIE. 

CXLIII. 

Two days of anxious nursing and good rest, 
"With friendly skill and hospitable cares, 
Have quite restored the shipwrecked to themselv* 
And all, save one, have parted for their homes. 
That one, by far less welcome than the rest, 
The mystic woman with the dazzling eyes, 
Now recognized, with silent awe and fear, 
As Lady Ainsworth's maid of former time, 
"Who left so suddenly at dead of night, 
And who was never heard of since that hour. 
A numerous party of distinguished guests 
Had also gone, and none remained behind 
Except the Lord's domestics, and their friends, 
Who hold high revel in the servants' hall. 

CXLIY. 

The wine cup and the song went gaily round, 
The fire burnt brightly through the light of day, 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. Ill 

"When raised the ancient steward of the house 

To quaff a health to Ernest and his hride, 

Warmly responded to hy all, except 

The frowning stranger with the fiery eyes, 

Who now glanced round, and, with a smothered curse, 

Refused the toast. Hot words arose, which scarce 

Were well begun, when, from its gilded frame, 

The Lady Ainsworth's massive picture fell. 

CXLV. 
Then rose loud clamour at the castle gates, 
While the old blood-hounds barked with furious bay ; 
And knocks rang loud, and bells were torn in haste, 
When Walter, like a maniac's ghost, rushed in, 
Crying impatiently — " Haste, noisy fools, 
Haste — quick, your aid ; speed onward fast, and find 
My murdered father in the hazel dell." 
Wonder and terror seized the listening train, 
While all flew swiftly to the fatal spot 
Where May and Ernest, not an hour before, 



112 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Held sweet communion with the form that now 
Lay cold and lifeless in their tremhling arms. 

CXLVI. 
One moment, as they went, looked Walter round, 
Wild with remorse and suicidal brain ; 
And towards him crept the woman, on whose face 
A demon smile sat playing, as in scorn. 
" Hist, hist," she said ; " lament not for the deed, 
'Twas done in justice to thyself and me ; 
I feel the act was thine. But listen now 
While we are yet alone. I am not mad, 
Though why I am not I can scarcely tell. 
Thy hand is red with blood — nay, start not, child, 
But list to that on which thy fate depends, 
Now and for ever, and my own as well. 
There's blood upon thy soul, but not thy sire's. 
'Tis true, I swear ; thy father is not dead — 
Lord Elliott, not Lord Ainsworth, is thy sire, 
And you are not the lady's child, but mine ! 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 113 

cxLvn. 
" You need not curse me, for I swear thou art 
A changeling, a supposititious son, 
Not chosen or acknowledged, even known 
To the proud daine who pined so for an heir, 
Which Elliott, in return for slighted love, 
Fed his revenge by making me supply. 
But strip thine arm ; a mark like this is there : 
'Tis well ; now read this scroll. Ha ! ha ! proud boy, 
Thou canst no longer doubt whose child thou art. 



" List now, a moment, I shall soon explain : 
A poor and friendless girl I sought this roof, 
And Lady Ainsworth took me as her maid — 
But, oh ! too soon, too soon my wicked heart, 
Envious of bliss that it should never know, 
Sought every means to win her husband's love, 



114 AINSWORTH S HEIB. 

Who scorned, repulsed, but secret kept from her 
So much beloved, my shameless perfidy. 

CXLIX. 
" Lord Elliott wooed me. Hush ! thy birth was hid, 
In pity, by the mistress I had wronged, 
Whom not a week from thence became, alas ! 
The mother of a still-born heir. But she, 
Unconscious of her loss, or my foul play, 
Nursed thee upon her bosom as her own ; 
So thou, the child of infamy and shame, 
Usurped the rights of Ainsworth's truthful lord, 
While I, in dread my guilt should come to light, 
Fled to a foreign land, where I have longed, 
In lonely solitude, to gaze once more 
On thy forgotten features, and to die. 

CL. 
" This bloody deed has made thee great, my son, 
And thou art now the master of those lands, 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 1] 

Unless a craven heart belies thy hand. 

Vengeance is sweet, and thou canst humble sore 

Thy envied rival and his haughty wife, 

Who half a sister is to thee, alas ! 

The murderous act is secret ; not an eye 

Of mortal saw it : brave the danger out, 

And thou shalt be a lord of vast estate ! 

But let the coward brand thy guilty brow, 

And the dark scaffold is thy certain doom. 

Courage, my son, awhile. Hark ! now they come ; 

Yet no, that sound proceeded from that door ; 

It rattles — heaven, my child, we're lost, we're lost ! 

CLI. 
Pallid as death, with weak and tottering steps 
Moved Alice forward, till she calmly stood 
Before the woman's face in stately pride, 
And in impressive accents thus began : 
" Cold stranger, thou who art a lie to all 
Our kindly sex, tempt him no longer thus, 

i 2 



116 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

But, ere the hand of justice track him out, 

Let him in mercy fly from this away. 

And thou should'st, too, depart, else thou wilt meet 

A guilty felon's fate ; in pity to 

The honour of our house, I pray thee fly. 

CLIL 
" Oh ! brother, thou who yet must claim within 
My sister heart much love, hear me implore ! 
Lose not a moment, ere the blood-hound's bark 
Shall tell thy foes thou'st killed thine only friend." 
She rose, and, tearing from a drawer, drew forth 
Caskets of jewels and a weight of gold, 
And thrust them into Walter's quivering hands. 

CLIII. 
Like one half comprehending what had passed, 
Awakening to each fact by slow degrees, 
Walter aroused at last. The stranger clung 
To him all wildly, but he cast her forth 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

With a deep curse upon her tight embrace. 
One moment more, and Alice on his breast 
Wept tears of keenest agony ; the next, 
And he had fled for ever from her sight. 



The guilty woman stood, in withering scorn, 
Gazing upon the maiden's tear-stained face, 
Who now sobbed forth, all gentleness again — 
" Oh ! stranger, thou did'st say the tender being 
Who gave me life is stainless, good, and true ; 
For this I thank thee ; I have felt the breath 
Of vicious slander on her sacred name, 
And now her child can prove no stain was there. 



" Oh ! now the thought, the fear of all my life, 
That parted me from Dudley's treasured love 
Is gone, though he and I may meet no more. 
Yet thou, my mother, whom I never knew, 



118 ainsworth's heir. 

My angel friend, my own sweet memory, 
Whom I have pictured through long lonely years 
As something fair and lovely, on whose face 
One cloud kept lowering ; I can see thee now, 
Enshrined in virtue's temple, pure and true." 

CLVI. 
Slowly and sadly bore the grieving throng 
The bloody corse of Ainsworth's honoured lord, 
His grey hair clotted with the crimson gore, 
His white face stilled into its last cold look. 
They came in silence ; for no word, no sigh 
Revealed regret, yet every heart was sad, 
And every head bowed low in bitterness, 
While bearing him to his bereaved home, 
Losing the dear familiar friend of years. 

CLVIL 
A lasting shadow fell on Ainsworth's house ; 
No gay rejoicings hailed the youthful heir ; 



AINSWORTH S HEIR. 119 

And the wild rumours of the foreign maid, 

Now fied again as strangely as hefore, 

Once more made food for gossip, while each heart 

Was knit more closely to the lovely wife 

Of Ernest, now their lord, but who had been 

Always the idol of their fondest love. 

CLVIII. 
Far to a southern clime the murderer fled, 
Goaded for ever with a fell remorse ; 
Eeduced by want, and seeming doomed to sink 
Quite unbefriended to an early grave. 
One night, when on his pallet, sick to death, 
A kindly voice fell softly on his soul, 
Striking the chords of memory, which brought 
Back to his mind sweet thoughts of bygone years : 
And still he listened to the voice, afraid 
To ope his weary eyelids, lest the dream 
Should be dispelled ; and then his name was breathed, 
While a soft hand pressed his all tenderly, 



120 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

And Walter saw a friend of olden times 
Beside his couch, in silent sympathy. 
'Twas Harry Dudley, all surprise and grief, 
To find that form, once nohle in its pride, 
Sunk to the misery of its present state. 



CLIX. 

Was this the friend who, not a year before, 
Ee veiled in fortune's smiles ? the haughty heir, 
The pride and hope of Ainsworth's ancient name ? 
Young, yet the furrows of deep care had seared 
His wasted brow ; the limbs a sculptor might 
Have made his model are no longer round, 
But white, emaciated all. He lay 
Poor and alone, and in a foreign land, 
With no dear hand to close his dying eyes 
Or shed a tear upon his lonely grave. 
Where was the father whose indulgence killed 
The little seed of virtue in the child ? 



AINSWORTH S HEIE. 12 

What hand is reaping now the poisoned grain 
Of the dread harvest in the full-grown man ? 

CLX. 
In shuddering awe one moment Dudley stood, 
But, prompt to act, he lost no time in thought ; 
With sleepless kindness, and untiring zeal, 
He watched for weeks beside him, smoothing care, 
And tending him with all a woman's skill, 
Then spoke of sweet forgiveness and of heaven, 
Urging the prodigal to prayer and tears. 

CLXI. 

And soon the sinner told his tale of crime, 
Spoke of his birth, revealed its cheating scheme, 
While from the darkness sprang a welcome ray, 
Lighting the torch of hope within the breast 
Of the rapt listener, for he found within 
The mystery of Walter's birth, the clue 
That parted him and Alice, and he felt 



122 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Her scrupulous mind would never stoop to bring 
A shadow on her husband's honoured name. 
He understood a hint she gave him once, 
Of a strange blot upon her mother's fame. 
The truth now flashed upon him, while the bar 
Which held true hearts apart was broken down. 

CLXII. 
One month of suffering, of pain and grief, 
In deep repentance, shame, and bitterness, 
And a strange calm came over Walter's breast. 
At first 'twas like a lull within a storm, 
As weary nature sobs herself to sleep, 
Then rose again in fiercer, sterner power, 
And fades in distance quickly off again. 
Then it returns, but sweetly, warm and low, 
Like a soft sigh upon a tranquil lake, 
Bearing glad music in its balmy breath, 
Which charmed the angry storm away, and now 
You feel secure it will return no more. 



AIXSWORTH S HEIR. 123 

CLXIII. 

So from that black despair stole gentle hope, 
As a fair star from out the clouds of heaven, 
Revealing to the sinner love and trust, 
That o'er his bosom never came before. 
He pass'd in calmness to the grave-yard's rest ; 
And, like the thief upon Mount Calvary's cross, 
Condemned by man, let him in silence pass, 
For in the peace of vales which cannot fade, 
He may have found a happier home than here. 

CLXIV. 
Three years have passed in sunshine and in showers, 
And now Lord Ainsworth's house is coming forth 
From out its shadow into happiness. 
'Tis harvest time, and all the village green 
In glad confusion, hearty cheer, and noise. 
Old dames are chatting in their finery, 
And young maids flaunt their ribbons gay about, 



124 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

Smiling in archness at each peasant swain, 
Who, all delighted at their own attire, 
Smile at the sweet coquettes in pride again. 

CLXV. 
Then all is bustle, laughter, and quaint wit, 
While old and } T oung are jostled in the carts, 
Strewn with new hay, green branches, and rosettes, 
Which bear their happy burden to the dance 
And festive scene in Ainsworth's crowded lawn, 
Where lord and peasant, on the equal ground 
Of virtue's honest soil, meet heartily. 

CLXVI. 
And now, when all a willing homage paid 
To the good cheer of merry harvest home, 
Sweet May and Roderick lead the stirring dance, 
While Ernest with a bashful village belle 
Is tripping lightly o'er the verdant sheen. 
Loud came the music, louder pealed the bells, 



ATXSWORTH S HEIR. 

Bonfires were lighted, rockets flashed on high, 
Myriads of colours streaming from the trees, 
Blended their hues in richest harmony. 

CLXVIL 
Why are two figures lingering far apart, 
Seeking a spot so lone from mirth away ? 
Yet even they are smiling, and the maid, 
Hiding her blushing face, cannot disguise 
The rapturous joy within her swimming eyes. 
A noble form beside her whispers low, 
In breathing words of love, within her ear ; 
And Harry Dudley deeper, deeper bends, 
Till Lady Alice raised her head, perhaps 
Too suddenly, but still her rosy lips 
Come in strange contact with her lover's now. 

CLXVIII. 
Still pealed the music, still rang out the bells, 
On went the dance, and louder grew the laugh ; 



126 AINSWORTH S HEIR. 

More wood was heaped upon the bonfire's blaze, 
And the rich wines more swiftly flew around ; 
Even the old threw off the yoke of years, 
While fancy bore them to their first young spring ; 
Sunshine and flowers, joy, hope, and happy love, 
Peace -and contentment meeting merrily. 
Then there arose a cheer, both loud and long, 
Clasping of hands, and welcomes all around ; 
Greetings and smiles, prayers,blessings,and good words, 
As Harry Dudley bore his promised bride 
In joyful triumph to the merry dance. 

CLXIX. 
And hark, oh ! hark, a sweeter strain is borne 
Upon the breath of ripest harvest bloom, 
Gushing from hill and dale, from glade and bower, 
Echoing sweetly down the valley's slope, 
To linger long within the hazel dell, 
As memoiy dwells upon its brighest dreams. 
At the new strain leaped Pedro from the feet 



ainswokth's heir. 127 

Of his fond mistress, adding to the mirth 
By his wild capers, while young village maids 
Come with light footsteps o'er the springing sward, 
Welcomed with many a genial smile of May's, 
To whom they move all timid, like young fawns, 
Bearing a wreath of laurel, which they place 
In love and reverence, and pride and joy, 
Upon her hrow, whose hope is — Ainsworth's heir 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 

There's silence in the household, there is silence 

everywhere, 
What once was glad with cheerful sounds now sinks 

in dull despair ; 
There's silence in the household, where breasts with 

anguish thrill, 
No sound is echoed from the harp, whose chords are 

loose and still ; 
And silent is the bleeding heart, whose throb may rise 

and fall, 
When youth and hope, and joy and love, lie 'neath 

the sable pall. 



130 SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 

When that which was thy second part, spark of thy 

being's life, 
Has sunk within the arms of death, who conquers in 

the strife ; 
"When once the flood-gates of the soul its deepest 

spring lets flow, 
'Tis not in mortal power to stay that tide of mighty 

woe. 

There's silence in the household, there's a young wife 

sad and lone, 
All white and tearless by the corpse of him she long 

had known ; 
Of him to whom she ever turned, through happy 

wedded years, 
To share her many little joys, or chase away her tears. 
He was her changeless staff and shield, in sunshine 

and in cloud, 
And now she gazes on his form, wrapped in the 

funeral shroud, 



SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 131 

And feels the world is very dark, and that she longs 

to lay 
Her head heside the breathless thing, and pass from 

earth away ; 
No more to feel the aching void, to see the empty 

chair, 
To miss her treasured life of life, ami live in calm 

despair. 

There's silence in the household ; 'tis manhood now 

that bends 
Beneath the burden of a grief that noble vigour lends ; 
For it is lovely, though 'tis sad, that stalwart youth 

to see 
Stand firmly by his mother's corse in speechless 

misery. 
He thinks of joyous infant years, of thoughtless 

childhood's time, 
And those soft tears upon his cheek that honour 

manhood's prime ; 

k2 



132 SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 

He takes the clammy hand that once had owned a 

loving spell, 
To guide each trembling, tottering step, each childish 

grief to quell ; 
Presses one kiss upon its palm, and meekly bows 

his head, 
With one deep blessing and a prayer upon the 

honoured dead. 

There's silence in the household ; here's a youthful 

mother now, 
With thorns of keenest sorrow deeply pressing on her 

brow ; 
Here woe sits wailing by a cot, a lonely cradle bed, 
Where once the light of rosy hope had holy lustre 

shed ; 
Where little arms outstretched in glee, and innocence 

once smiled, 
When loving parents watched in pride their boy, their 

only child ; 






SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 133 

Yet even here the reaper comes -with sickle sharp and 

cold, 
To cut a budding flow'ret down, whose leaves shall 

yet unfold 
"Within a brighter, fairer soil, immortal in its bliss, 
And yet that weeping mother now would have it bloom 

in this. 



There's silence in the household, for some idol there 

enshrined, 
Which round the core of loving hearts too fondly had 

entwined, 
Has fallen from its pedestal ; alas ! 'twas only clay ! 
Yet is perhaps immortal raised, far, far from earth 

away, 
Called hence that hearts which worshipped here, 

might so be drawn on high, 
For where our dearest treasure is, there must our 

thoughts draw nigh. 



134 SILENT HOUSEHOLDS. 

So faithful wife and son bear up, bless prayerfully your 

pain, 
It is a silent voice from God, that bids you meet 

again ; 
And, weeping mother, dry thy tears, strive with thy 

anguish wild, 
Look heavenward now, an angel sings, that angel is 

thy child. 



There's silence in the household ; yet, ah ! no, not 

silence all, 
For music softly whispers from beneath the sable pall ; 
There is a sacred halo round the loved one's lifeless 

head, 
Like rainbows in our earthly sky, that rarest beauties 

shed; 
And there's a holy echo in each wet and wormy sod, 
That bids thee strip thee of thy sins, and robe thee 

for thy God. 



NO JEWELS FOE ME. 135 

For in each breath, each look and smile, and on 

each sigh and tear, 
We listen to a warning from the sweet angelic sphere, 
Which tells us though our homes be still, though all 

be sad and lone, 
There is a joyful household yet, which we may gladly 



NO JEWELS FOE ME. 

And those gems are so dear ! well, 'tis all very queer, 

That such pains should be taken with me ; 
By this beautiful dress one might very soon guess 

Ma is hiding what plainly I see. 
For those jewels so rare, thus entwined in my hair, 

And those bracelets my wrists meant to span, 
Are a trap, well I know, into which I'm to go, 

And be wed to a horrid old man. 



136 NO JEWELS FOE ME. 

He has riches in store, they repeat o'er and o'er, 

But I know who is richer by far, 
And the jewels he'll bring is a simple gold ring, 

So what then can its happiness mar ? 
For his love can impart the sweet wealth of the heart, 

And shall pour all its treasures on me, 
Who I know fondly waits at the village church gates, 

Just to ask when his bride shall I be. 

Poor Mamma now may weep, and her rare jewels keep, 

They'll not purchase my love nor my will, 
For my mind is so staid, though I'm not an old maid, 

That I'm time to my young lover still. 
So the old man may swear, not a pin do I care, 

For my bosom is bursting with glee, 
And to-morrow he'll find I could not change my mind, 

Since the gem of my Willy I'll be. 



WHERE IS THE SUMMER GOXE i 

WHEEE IS THE SUMMER GONE ? 
Oh ! -where is the summer gone, mother ? 

With everything lovely and fair, 
Whose light not a shadow could cover, 

For joy teemed like dew in the air. 
My fresh heart kept dancing for ever, 

As lightly I tripped on my way, 
I fancied a sorrow would never 

Disturb my young life's happy day. 
The flowers still are blooming as brightly, 

The hot sun is gemming the sea, 
The sweet birds are singing as lightly, 

And yet 'tis not summer to me. 



Last year, when the spring buds were 
They placed a bright crown on my brow 

The best joys are ever the fleetest, 

How heavy the same thoughts are now ! 

Ah ! why does my heart feel so weary ? 
I seem to have grown very old ; 



38 WHEKE IS THE SXJMMEE GONE ? 

The whole world is altered and dreary, 
Each life-pulse beats sadly and cold. 

True friends still around me are smiling, 
Sweet nature is radiant with glee ; 

The blue sky is fair and beguiling, 
And yet 'tis not summer to me. 

Oh ! where is the summer gone, mother ? 

Why does it not rapture impart? 
Ah ! tell not this thought to another, 

The summer's gone out of my heart. 
You chide me for vainly repining, 

And bid me be happy and gay, 
Alas ! with thy love round me twining, 

Hope seems to be passing away. 
Oh ! bring back my freshness, sweet mother, 

Drain out every drop from the sea, 
Call stars from the heavens, dearest mother, 

And then 'twill be summer to me. 



THE MAORI WIDOW. 139 

THE MAORI WIDOW. 

The wind sings dirge-like in the Maori's pah, 
The moon shines dimly, like a " sheeted ghost," 

And, like the native warriors, pass from view, 
The glorious vanguard of the heavenly host. 

While in the storm the Maori widow comes 
With tottering footsteps on her weary way, 

Who bears the sacred burden of the dead, 
And pauses not, or pauses but to pray. 

She tore the corse from out the distant grave, 
Dug up that bed with weak and trembling hands ; 

She longed to press once more that cherished form, 
So coldly buried in those hated sands. 

She longed to kiss again that noble brow, 
To gaze upon her husband's long-loved face ; 

Though bloody wounds were marked by foemen there, 
Nought from her heart its hero could efface. 



140 THE MAOEI WIDOW. 

He fell in battle, yet his sacred clay 

Should never moulder in the stranger's soil ; 

And so she bears him to his native land, 

Tottering, yet strong beneath her loving toil. 

She does not feel the storm, for in her heart 

Bage fiercer throes than winds or thunders loud ; 

She only sees his cold and lifeless form, 
And wraps her scarf around it for a shroud. 

Her breast is naked, and the bitter winds 
Beat on her bare and wildly throbbing head ; 

She knows it not, she only feels the void, 
The vacant place that hope left when it fled. 

At length she pauses, for her weak limbs fail, 
And sickness masters for a time all power ; 

She lays her cherished burden on the grass, 
While on his brow the torch of lightnings lour. 



THE MAORI WIDOW. 141 

How tenderly she gazes on those lips, 
And wipes away each drop of death's red foam ! 

She wept a little while, then bore him on, 
On through the storm, far to his native home. 

No, not for him the stranger's lonely grave, 

Where faith and love their vigils ne'er could keep ; 

And so she strove to bear him homeward still, 
That she beside his grave might watch and weep. 

On, on still bravely, buffeting the storm, 
But now on feebly, for the weary rest ; 

The dew of death is creeping o'er her limbs, 
Oozing from out her sick and frozen breast. 

She pauses, trembles, falls ; no home in sight, 
No friendly voice to calm her wild despair, 

She creeps still nearer, closer to the dead, 

Takes one long look, then sinks beside him there. 



142 SPRING BUDS. 

She never moved again, except to smile, 
As if her spirit found its straying part, 

When the soft breath was struggling through her lips, 
From the last sigh that heaved her broken heart. 

Oh ! tenderness sublime ! true woman thou, 

"Who dared the storm, the battle-field, and strife ; 

Time woman, yes ; for what's the world beside, 
Since he is gone, the one life of her life ? 



SPRING BUDS. 

0, welcome, sweet buds ! to this fair world again, 
Bright,bright be your blossoms, and longbe your reign ; 
The dew that you hold in each young fairy bell, 
Like tears in the depth of true gratitude's cell, 
Falls purely around with a magical power, 
Refreshing the soil of each bosom and flower. 



SPEING BUDS. 



0, welcome, green buds ! though I gaze with a tear, 
For summer's last promise turned yellow and sere ; 
The buds that then came every battle to brave, 
Fell withered and lone upon many a grave ; 
And now you are living in beauty most gay, 
Where live hearts are buried with cold ones of clay. 

0, welcome, fresh buds ! for you brighten the sod, 
Where loved ones are lying who rest with their God ; 
Ah ! who would not have you to smile on the place, 
Where love springs the fondest from memoiy's space ? 
Then smile in your sweetness, still smile on that mould, 
For short of your bloom it is lonely and cold. 

0, welcome, young buds ! you are welcome to me, 
My heart is expanding with blossoms as free ; 
The leaflets of hope grow from sorrow and care, 
And fold on my bosom its chaplet most fair ; 
How gladly I hail you, fresh, beautiful things, 
There's peace in the verdure your birth ever brings. 



144 LINES WRITTEN IN AN OLD BOOK. 

0, welcome, green buds ! with your odour so sweet, 
Keep opening around us, our senses to greet ; 
Be gay in the valley, he gay in the glade, 
Kind children of nature, that brighten each shade ; 
And back to each bosom your freshness may bring 
The joy that can blossom like buds of the spring. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN OLD BOOK. 

Gone, gone for ever. Oh ! thou one beloved, 

And this is left to speak to me of thee — 
An old worn book ! but what a priceless thing, 

More dear to me than wealth of earth or sea. 
Thine eyes have traversed o'er its simple space, 

Thy hand was pressed where now I hold my own, 
And the sweet spell of memory, ever true, 

Speaks to my soul from thy loved spirit flown. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN OLD BOOK. 14£ 

Oh ! dear memento, o'er and o'er I search 

Each page, in hope some withered flower to find, 
Some little mark which thou kad'st placed within, 

A link from other years my heart to bind. 
But 'tis in vain, nor do I need their power ; 

Too keenly feels my heart what it hath lost ; 
Back o'er life's sea affection's eye is turned, 

Watching the ocean which thy bark has crossed. 

Gone, gone for ever ; yet each time-stained leaf 

Keeps breathing words of thine within my heart ; 
Thy image seems impressed in every line, 

And every page some memory can impart. 
I hide the faded token from the world, 

A careless glance it shall not ever brook ; 
This may be weakness, yet I love it well, 

Too well, perhaps, to love an old worn book. 



DEAKER TO ME. 



DEARER TO ME. 

In the days that are gone, in the days of my girl- 
hood, 
I turned with a fresh loving heart unto thee, 
For I felt that the strength of thy bosom's deep well, 
would 
Refresh all my life with its love-tide and glee. 
I was like a weak plant, wild and timid and shrinking, 
Still fearing to meet with the world's chilling gaze, 
But the light of thy truth, when my young soul was 
sinking, 
Fed life in my bosom with love's tender rays ; 
And I bless thee, I bless thee, my kind one, my 
darling, 
When even in silence I turn unto thee. 
So the long years go o'er us, my own one, my dar- 
ling, 
And each one has made thee but dearer to me. 



DEARER TO ME. 147 

Oft they told me the cold world would yet change thy 
kindness, 
That others would claim in thy bosom a share ; 
And they scoffed at my faith, for they said it was 
blindness, 
The wealth of my heart on such venture to dare : 
And I knew, if the wreck came, each hope would be 
broken, 
And lie on my heart-strings like ice on a flower, 
Which, bereft of the sunshine, like love's gentle 
token, 
Must wither and die 'neath the icicle's power. 
But I felt thou wert true, and I loved thee, my darling, 

My life grew with thine both in sorrow and glee ; 
So the years may pass o'er us, my kind one, my 
darling, 
And each one shall make thee but dearer to me. 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

THE CABIN. PART I. 

Dewy morning breaks in gladness, 
O'er fair meads in verdant sheen, 

And the rising sun is gently 

Gazing back night's bashful queen. 

Calm and peaceful are the meadows, 
Bright with dew unsipped as yet, 

Tiny mushrooms all securely 

From night's bath look up still wet. 

Summer morning, soft and silent, 
Who can ever taste thy sweets ? 

Who, except the peasant lowly, 
All thy joyous freshness greets ? 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

He, with thy young dawn arising, 
Nerved with manly strength and will, 

Seeks thy much unsought-for pleasures, 
Over plain and over hill. 

While his bosom's king is ever 
From the baser passions free, 

Envy, hatred, pride, ambition, 
Scared, before contentment flee. 

And he never thinks that greatness, 
Though so humble, stamps his brow ; 

Yet the soul, with truth that's lighted, 
Must be great, though at the plough. 

Simple hearts which beat with kindness, 
With their fellow-men at rest, 

Must be noble, though but lowly, 
Is not kindness nature's crest ? 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

And the silent deeds of goodness, 
Seen by none, or else by few, 

Show a courage, brave, unselfish, 
Proving honour high and true. 

See the peasant go to labour, 

Joy upon his ruddy cheek, 
While his cheerful song and whistle 

Peaceful happiness bespeak. 

Be he old, is there not vigour 
In his brawny wrinkled hand ? 

And the marks which toil has planted 
Big with honesty expand. 

Mark him stoop with scythe which sharply 
Sweeps the chaffy grain away, 

Simple, pleasant, always thankful, 
Though his head be bald or grey. 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

When the morning's meal is ready, 
Where the board is clean and neat, 

See him, fresh and hungry, joining 
In the frugal fare and sweet. 



When the meal is o'er, a blessing 
Short, yet gratefully, is said ; 

Then his children gather round him 
With their faces gay and red. 

Some he scolds, and others fondles, 
Loving all with pride and joy, 

Finding charms in every dimple 
Of each romping girl and boy. 

Watch a stalwart youth at labour, 
Love perchance may lead him on, 

Basking in the future's sunshine, 
Thinking not of pleasures gone. 



! THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

Every day new promise lending, 
Every night as fresh as morn, 

Still the same strong will and hosom 
Helps to bind the hay and corn. 

Should, perhaps, a blue-eyed maiden 
Peep within his cabin door, 

And a brighter ray of sunshine 
Stream upon the flaggy floor ; 

Should the peasant feel the magic 

Of the rosy witch's wile, 
And the brighter ray that entered 

Through his heart, beam in his smile. 

He is nature's child, and heaven, 
In the humblest as the king, 

Plants the seed of God's own sweetness, 
Which with love in each can spring. 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

And the poor Bian woos in honour, 
Weds the simple working girl ; 

Though the gem be rough 'tis precious, 
Lowly lies the purest pearl. 

Rural pleasures, calm and homely, 
Free from envy, care, and strife, 

Honoured be your unfelt greatness, 
With simplicity so rife. 

When respect true right is claiming, 
Higher place to thee should bow ; 

Honoured be thy cheerful labour, 
Honest driver of the plough. 

Now farewell to hill and valley, 

To another sphere I go ; 
Truth shall waft me o'er its waters, 

While in nature's bark I row. 



154 THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

And I trust that, like the peasant, 
Though in poorest thoughts arrayed, 

I shall gather many blossoms, 
Finding sweets in every shade. 

THE^ CASTLE. PART II. 

Loud blows the wintry wind o'er hill and dale, 
Drifting the snow-flakes on its chilly wing, 

Dotting cold windows with their feathery spray, 
Like the white blossoms on the trees that cling. 

Bleakly it howls against the castle walls, 
Unheard within, for all is warm with wealth, 

Where ladies throng amid a lordly host, 

And all seem sweetly bright with joy and health. 

'Tis well if we can feel that all which seems 
Is more than seeming, more than studied art ; 

So here I'll shrink behind a magic screen, 
To see each puppet act its worldly part, 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 155 

And strip gay fancy of her borrowed charms, 
To learn the secret spring of working minds, 

To drag aside the veil that each one wears, 

The cloak of sin, the shield that pride thus finds. 

Along that hall the voice of revel comes, 
Mingling with music soft and fairy-like ; 

A lovely maid, bedecked with jewels rare, 

Takes up her lute, its trembling chords to strike. 

Her eye roams strangely round the brilliant space, 
And rests upon a form of noble mien ; 

But he is gazing on another now, 

Who fondly seems his bosom's chosen queen. 

One glance she cast upon him, then arose 
In stately .pride, and coldly moved away ; 

But all the wealth his chosen bride can bring 
Is not so precious as that simple lay. 



156 THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

And now I mark another noble form, 

But on whose brow ambition sets her seal ; 

Whose deep-set eye, and lip's unswerving curl, 
The disappointed statesman still reveal. 

Further apart a ruined gambler sits, 

With eyes that glitter very fierce and wild ; 

What madd'ning thought is goading him to death ? 
His heart is with his wretched wife and child ! 

The dark and bitter gall that poisons life 

Spreads o'er the sweetness that was living there ; 

And yet he seems to laugh in merry glee, 
Smiles on his lip, but in his soul despair. 

Now near a board, where Bacchus holds his sway, 
A willing captive revelling in his smile ; 

Though often sinking lower than the low, 
Can now grave men with clever wit beguile. 



THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. ] 

They hang upon his words, and praise him well, 
Who looks so nohle in his youthful joy ; 

Alas ! I weary of such hollow scenes, 

I'll drop the curtain, or all truth destroy. 

Oh ! pride, amhition, art or envy's thrall, 
Or petty jealousy, or wounded pique ; 

Whate'er thou art that sullies God's sweet gift, 
And stains with guilt her fair and lovely cheek ; 

Away, away, far from my spirit fly, 

Of falsehood's brand I'd have my bosom free ; 
0, bright sincerity ! 0, faithful dove, 

Accept the homage I would offer thee. 

Ah ! is there nothing in this higher sphere 
To render happiness, and joy, and peace ? 

Does nature dwell not in this hall of state ? 

And where she reigns no sin can much increase. 



158 THE CABIN AND THE CASTLE. 

" 'Tis true, my child ;" cold Keason thus replies — 
" Sweet nature here can live, but pomp and pride, 

Decked in light folly, sometimes check her ways, 
When Wisdom breathes not by her loving side." 

And I have seen within the lordly hall 

True goodness, virtue, wisdom, all combined ; 

Hail ! then, to all who cheer the stately hearth, 
Long be their reign, bright may it be, and kind ! 

Hail to the generous hand that helps the poor, 
The gentle breasts that charity can claim ! 

Though high, so lowly in their useful deeds, 
From whence nobility but owns its name. 

Bright truth, pure truth, where art thou to be found ? 

Thou sacred drop from heaven ! where didst thou fall? 
Sweet inspiration ! whence could dawn thy birth ? 

Within the cabin or the castle wall ? 



' ' Go where simplicity doth most prevail ; 

From thence my birth, too often killed by art ; 
I am a throb from out God's spotless life, 

And beat alone within pure nature's heart." 



SERENADE. 

WRITTEN TO MUSIC. 

Sweet good-night, 
Oh ! lady, sweet good-night. 

Eyes from heaven 
Watch thee with faithful light. 

Blest are they 
In that radiant smile of thine ; 
My hope, brightest of stars, thou art mine ! 
Dearest of stars, thou art mine ! 

Thou did'st illumine 
Each shade of my life, lovely star ; 

Joys beaming sunshine 
Soon melted shadows afar. 



Magical ray 
Beam on my way ; 
Spirit of love 
Look from above, 
Pour down thy light ! 
My guiding star, good-night ; 
Lady, a sweet good-night ! 

Sleep, love, sleep, 
While I fond vigils keep ; 

Dreams of joy 
Thy guileless fancy steep. 

Let one thought, 
My fairest maid, stray to me, 
Who ever loved hut thee, only thee ? 
Who ever shall love but thee ? 

Thou art the glory 
To crown my young life, lovely star ! 

Thy radiant presence 

Chases each shadow afar. 



LET THE EXILE DREAM. 

Hope of my clay, 
Queen of my way ; 
Spirit of love, 
Look from above ; 
Give her thy light ! 
My guiding star, good-night ; 
Lady, a sweet good-night ! 



LET THE EXILE DREAM. 

Hush ! hush ! let the exile dream, 

Nor disturb his sweet repose, 
O'er which calmest thought will gleam, 

Like moonlight upon a rose. 
He's thinking of other climes, 

Of his native land afar ; 
And the past comes back, dear times, 

As waters reflect a star. 



IRELAND AS SHE IS. 



See the smile upon his lip, 

The flush on his open brow, 
As sunbeams the mountains tip, 

Flashing warm, but fading now. 
See, see, now he smiles again, 

What heaven-born thoughts must gleam 
O'er his soul's great depth to reign,' 

Then, hush ! let the exile dream. 



IRELAND AS SHE IS. 

Soft twilight creeps in beauty o'er the sky, 
To blend its pearly shades with deepest blue, 

And silvery stars are dotted everywhere, 
Like diamonds in a waste of changing hue. 

No rays from Luna ever teemed more fair, 
Upon the earth, or on the ocean wide, 

As now she glances from the throne of might, 
Like pity's queen upon life's changing tide. 



IRELAND AS SHE IS. 163 

Oh ! would that Nature had the power to soothe 
The passions raging in the breast of man — 

To chase away the evil spell that holds 
Her fallen children in its narrow span. 

But all unsoothed, they wend their lawless path 
From off the borders in ambition's might, 

And never see pure Nature's sweetest smile 
Is calmly beaming on the peaceful night. 

A peasant steals from out his cabin door, 
And peers around in bitterness and dread ; 

Then listens mute, with hands locked tight in prayer, 
While shame and grief are bending low his head. 

He turns above his longing, wistful eye, 

And wonders why the moon shines bright and fair, 

While so much sorrow presses on his heart 

Which seemed till now so free from grief and care. 

m 2 



164 IRELAND AS SHE IS. 

Still, still he listens, till he hears a sound 

That makes the old blood curdle in his breast, 

And sees a sight that well might strike him blind, 
And rob his bosom of its peace and rest. 

The flashing steel, the clattering of arms, 
Are breaking o'er the stillness of the night, 

While dusky forms are passing to and fro, 

Too clearly seen beneath the moon's pure light. 

Hushed words are breathed, they one by one depart, 
Then the bold leader seeks his cabin door, 

So blind and reckless, yet so brave and young, 
That well might draw a sigh from pity's store. 

Upon his knees the aged father falls, 

In fond entreaty to his only child ; 
While tear on tear course down his withered cheek, 

And sobs escape his bosom deep and wild. 



IRELAND AS SHE IS. 1 

Alas ! the offspring coldly turns away, 

And nature weeps within her wounded shrine ; 

The dreamer sees his fondest hopes die out, 
Like bubbles bursting on the ocean's brine. 

"What curse, he cries, has lighted on my house ? 

And what of all, my son, has changed you so ? 
Alas ! the scroll within the youthful hand 

Reveals the truth, explains his shame and woe. 

Oh, heaven ! the old man cries, not thus from me 
You learned to violate our country's laws ! 

Hence, rebel, hence ! — he is no son of mine 
Who can dishonour so that country's cause. 

No longer child of mine, I well may mourn, 
To know the babe I've danced upon my knee ; 

The noble boy, once all his mother's pride, 
An ingrate prove to Erin and to me. 



166 IRELAND AS SHE IS. 

Turn back, my son, or at death's hour thou'lt feel 
Thou'st brought my head with sorrow to the grave ; 

Hark ! now, 'tis mercy's voice that so implores, 
Come ere too late — she yet has power to save. 

It is no yoke that binds thy youthful heart, 
Nor tyranny, nor yet oppression's thrall ; 

' ' Turn back, my children," England's sovereign pleads, 
Loved Ireland, hearken to her gracious call. 

Oh ! e'en more humbly than that aged man, 
Bends bounteous Mercy to her straying flock, 

Ajid longs to bring her treasures back again, 
Though sterner justice may at mercy mock. 

Lest they should fall beneath their weight of dread, 
Or disappointed aims should crush them down ; 

And now the amulets of peace she'll twine, 
Alike the peasant and the kkig to crown. 



PROSE VERSUS POETRY. 1( 

Dear Emerald Isle, each patriot heart would shed 
Its latest drop to see thee happy now ; 

Rear high thy head, nor sully virtue's crest, 
For England's wreath is blooming on thy brow. 

And may it glow still bright with hope's fair gems, 
To cast their radiance on our verdant shore, 

And send afloat the bark of plenteousness, 
To load our island with its precious store. 



PROSE versus POETRY. 

Peace reigns around, and fancy revels deep 

Within the circlet of the poet's dreams ; 
Thoughts of the past their sacred vigils keep, 

And magic memory wakes its favourite themes. 
How still and calm ; no sound disturbs the rest 

Of memory's tide, where sweetest thoughts still sail, 
'Till anchoring safe within my happy breast, 

Where love and joy — But, hark ! what voices rail 



168 PROSE VERSUS POETRY. 

Outside my door, while screams, amid the din 

Of swords and pistols, call upon my name, 
Which louder grow, with " Open, let me in ; 

Ma, give me bread and sugar, Dot the same, 
But Babe must have some jam on his." 0, grief, 

Where are my fancies, by despair now smote ? 
Most all are scattered, seeking for relief, 

And others refuge take down Willy's throat ; 
While now a trumpet louder, louder plays 

Its softest notes upon my charmed ear, 
Awakening echoes of some peaceful lays 

That might be sweeter, but not half so dear. 

Again there's silence, and peace smooths the plume 

Of ruffled temper, so I woo the muse, 
And back she comes more radiant in her bloom, 

Dissolving in my brain her varied hues. 
Long, long ago, that time when every heart, 

Though cold it be, must glow with one sweet throb 
Of one beloved — " 0, ma'am, the baker's cart 

Is waiting ; how much bread ? and on the hob 



OH ! SING THAT SONG ONCE MOKE. 

The pot is ready for the beef; 'tis soon 

To put it down, you told me one o'clock, 
And now 'tis three ; but surely it will ruin 

Its flavour if not better done, and shock 
The master's nerves. How much am I to get 

Of vegetables and them other things 
You told me of ? But, la ! sure, I forget, 

And, and," — 0, poetry, 'tis well your wings 
Are ever ready to take flight, for here 

Your gentle spirit ne'er would rest ; so fly, 
Or on the odour of our soup and beer 

You'll grow distracted, and in madness die ! 



OH ! SING THAT SONG ONCE MORE. 

Oh ! sing to me that song again, 

Heed not my silent tears, 
It brings so calmly o'er my brain 

Sweet thoughts of bygone years. 



OH ! SING THAT SONG ONCE MORE. 

Thy voice, thy clear and plaintive voice, 

Pure charms around me cast, 
"While memory weaves her garland choice 

From visions of the past ; 
Then sing, for, oh ! I love to hear 

Each cadence sweet and low, 
They fall so calmly on mine ear, 

And thrill me with their flow. 

The past, the past comes hack once more, 

Comes hack all fresh and fair, 
I live its brightness sweetly o'er, 

Without a shade of care. 
Then sing that lay, and let me deem 

That hope is mine again, 
Nor wake me from my blissful dream, 

Nor cease the thrilling strain. 
For in each note of that dear song 

His voice is lingering yet, 
An echo 'tis that's borne along, 

Forbidding to forget. 



IS FEIENDSHIP BUT A NAME ? 



IS FRIENDSHIP BUT A NAME ? 

Is friendship but a name ? oh ! read my heart, 

And thou wilt find no truer throb within ; 
No deeper feeling than the gentle part 

That's sacred held to thee, who first did win 
Its inmost sympathy. To others cold, 

My heart could mingle every throb with thine, 
Whose sweet affection, with a truth untold, 

Came o'er my life with friendship's light to shine. 
I'd wrench the tie that bound my soul to thee, 

I'd cut the heartstrings twining round thine own, 
Though all hereafter should be gloom to me, 

And life a desert where I'd breathe alone, 
So thou wert happy ; every hateful thought 

That turned on self should wither in my breast, 
And though a wreck of mortal sense it wrought, 

I'd ne'er repine if bliss with thee could rest. 



172 ONE HAPPY DAY GONE BY. 

ONE HAPPY DAY GONE BY. 

Who does not love to think upon some day, 
One happy day that comes to us no more ; 

A few short hours that we would fain recall, 
To live again their joyous brightness o'er ? 

Nor feel those moments, then but faintly prized, 
Grow out from all the shadows of the past, 

Distinct and clear, like stars within a sky 
Whose azure curtain clouds have overcast : 

Nor feel that day, o'er memory's greenest space, 
Like a fair vision ever there to range, 

Culling the sweets of memory, true and pure, 

Whose germ could live through coldness, time, or 
change. 

Nor feel you would not, could not doubt that breast, 
Who shared the sweetness of that day gone by, 

Although it may have been your fate to know 
Your own still live, when other friendships die. 



ONE HAPPY DAY GONE BY. i; 

Or have you felt how absence cools the throbs 
Of hearts that beat in unison for years, 

And know your bosom would not be so false, 

Although your truth could bring but woe and tears 

Or felt the sinking heart, while pride still reigned, 
To part from one who long had been too dear, 

And feel the links within thy soul are rent, 
Because the magnet is no longer near ? 

The shipwrecked seaman, on the stormy main, 
Can see through mist a beacon-light afar, 

And knows his home is there, and strives to steer 
His tottering vessel through the harbour bar : 

So with the memory of wrecked hopes ; we sail 
O'er fate's rough sea and ever-changing tide, 

Turning in sadness to our waning lights, 
And near their flickering rays in grief abide. 



174 ONE HAPPY DAY GONE BY. 

Yet still the brightness of one day gone by, 
Amid the present darkness, shines most fair ; 

Like hope's fresh image, robed from fancy's web, 
Placed in a field of rank and -wild despair. 

There is not one, though cold or hard he be, 

Could fail to find some " white marks" in his past, 

Some blooming tree within the forest sere, 

Which lived through sunshine, and through winter's 
blast. 

We love it well ; we fondly turn to gaze 
Upon that lamp that but too brightly shone, 

Whose tinted beams kept streaming o'er new joys 
Which scarce we knew until their light was gone. 

Oh ! happy day ; oh ! merry, joyous hours ; 

All spirit-like you rise before our view, 
Beckoning us back to innocence and love, 

While bygone scenes your memories renew. 



THEN TUKN TO ME. 



THEN TURN TO ME. 

When spring breaks from the chilly spell 

Of winter's hoary king, 
And buds peep from each tinted bell, 

Their sweets around to fling, 
And burst at last in summer flowers, 

All painted gems and gay ; 
When sunbeams mark the fleeting hours, 

And mirth speeds time away ; 
When all is fair o'er life's young sky, 

While fortune smiles on thee, 
Forget, forget the days gone by, 

And never think of me. 

Nor yet when eyes beam soft with love, 
Like stars with heaven's light, 

Which own a lustre from above, 
To gild bright hope more bright ; 



THEN TUKN TO ME. 

Nor yet when fancy weaves her crown, 

Or culls the laurel bough ; 
But should she, as she pressed it down, 

Pierce with a thorn thy brow, 
Oh ! then no other hand than mine 

Could half so tender be, 
Whose love would sweeter blossoms twine, 

Joy's thornless wreath for thee. 
When life's dull twilight gathers near, 

With shadows on thy heart, 
'Tis only then thou'lt prove how dear 

How very dear thou art. ^. 

As winter's chill, as summer's sun, 

As spring or autumn's range, 
Ne'er stay the course deep waters run, 

So love can never change. 
Then, should misfortune come, or friend 

Prove cold or false to thee, 
Think of the course the waters wend, 

And then thou'lt turn to me. 



ON RECEIVING A BROTHER'S PHOTOGRAPH. 177 

ON RECEIVING A BROTHERS PHOTOGRAPH 

THREE YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 

Dear image of the loved and lost, 

Oh ! why so life-like still ; 
When that reflected from this glass 

In death lies calm and chill ? 
Thou'rt like the thoughts within my soul, 

Undimmed by time, still true, 
Which buried there can never change, 

'Till heaven earth's ties renew. 

I gaze upon thee, treasured thing, 

Each feature well to trace ; 
Thine eye doth seem to meet mine own, 

And read my mournful face. 
And, oh ! those lips, could they but speak 

One little word to me, 
Could that white hand have life again, 

That mine enclasped might be ! 



178 ON RECEIVING A BROTHER S PHOTOGRAPH. 

I turn away, but still that eye, 

Doth follow me so mild, 
That bygone years come back again, 

And I'm once more a child. 
I see myself an orphan girl, 

My mother pale is there ; 
Young, beautiful, but poor, alas ! 

Her brow bespeaks despair. 

I see the friends that gathered round 

* When she was rich and high, 
Shrink back, go one by one away, 

Or pass her coldly by. 
And she, who was of gentle birth, 

Is crushed and spirit bowed, 
And cast upon a hard cold world, 

Amid a senseless crowd. 

Five little children, we were all 
Too weak for life's strong fight ; 



ON RECEIVING A BROTHER'S PHOTOGRAPH. 179 

My mother looked around for hope, 

But bitter was its blight. 
Yet there was one upon our floor, 

Good, staid, beyond his years ; 
Young Effy grew to bless and wipe 

Away a mother's tears. 

I never knew a father's love, 

My childhood's life was sad ; 
Far more of clouds fell to my lot, 

Than sunshine bright or glad. 
Yet Effy was our all in*all, 

Friend, brother, father, he — 
No wonder that we grieve and grieve 

His form no more to see. 

And this small bit of glass, so dear, 

Oh ! treasured image thou ; 
I'd love to gaze for ever thus 

Upon that thoughtful brow ; 



180 SUMMER FLOWERS. 

And tell my mourning heart the tales 
Of goodness there at rest, 

The mine of unpretending worth 
That lay within thy breast. 

Oh ! image of the loved and lost, 

Fair, mild, and life-like yet, 
Like memory, ever faithful still, 

Refusing to forget ! 
Reflecting from time's mirror all 

The light of truth and love 
That once was shining on this earth, 

And shineth now above. 



SUMMER FLOWERS. 

innocent blossoms ! radiant young flowers ! 

! Nature's fair children most gay ; 
While gazing upon you I think of the hours 

E'er life's sunny spring passed away. 



SUMMER FLOWERS. 

Alone, as I gaze on the simple white bell, 
Each leaf seems impressed with its youth ; 

For close in the depth of its light fairy cell 
Lie dewdrops, like virtue and truth. 

Ha ! mossy, wee rosebuds, you coyly peep out 
From soft verdant hoods, with a smile, 

As maidens, half blushing, look slyly about, 
Love's merry young god to beguile. 

That flirt of a cactus I freely admire, 
Though proud of its beauty so rare ; 

But of charms as glowing we very soon tire, 
And it very little must care. 

This calm mignonette is like worth in the shade, 

Like sympathy gentle and kind ; 
"With powers to gladden each bosom or glade, 

Though hidden there deeply enshrined. 
n 2 



182 SUMMER FLOWERS. 

Here now is a treasure, a lovely wild rose, 

For love it most surely was born ; 
I'll pluck it, for hope in my breast warmly glows, 

Yet, no — see this treacherous thorn. 

But, ah ! what is this looking lonely and sad, 

Its blue cup all drooping and wet, 
Its small azure petal with constancy clad, 

It pleads so — ah ! do not forget. 

This dark purple heather — mountain and hill ! 

In childhood I'm climbing you now ; 
Alas ! 'tis but fancy ; reality's chill 

Is pressing like ice on my brow. 

But where is the hawthorn, — dear fav'rite of mine ? 

Alas, it is gone with the Spring ; 
And all those rare blossoms with beauty that shine, 

Back none of its sweetness can bring. 



SUM2IEK FLOWERS. 183 

I love thee, I love thee, Summer's bright bloom ! 

Thy spell ever round me is cast ; 
Like sunbeams you brighten our life's fading noon, 

Like emblems you spring from the past. 

For who has not treasured, though withered and dead, 
The stem that a loved one possessed ; 

Nor feel that the happiness then o'er it shed 
Truth still can reflect in the breast ? 

Long, long, summer blossoms! long, long may you 
reign, 

Like voices you sound ever dear ; 
Which echo so softly down memory's chain, 

From tones that no longer are near. 

Ah ! who would not treasure the whisperings low 
That speak to the heart from dead leaves ; 

Nor feel joy's sweet breath from the dear long ago 
Still wafted where love warmly cleaves ? 



18 i AUTUMN LEAVES. 

I love you, I love you, radiant young flowers — 
Soft smiles from the Godhead to man ; 

Bright marks o'er our pathway from heaven's pure 
bowers 
To guide us o'er life's rugged span. 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

(written foe music.) 

Sweet leaves of Autumn, 
Sweet leaves — Oh ! fare you well, 
Falling o'er hill and dell. 
Sadly you're fading, 

Passing away, 
Like the bright beam 
Of joy's bright ray. 
Shadows, when gathering, fall sadly around, 
But echos of hope still resound 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

Dear to each heart, 

New joy to impart. 
Sweet Autumn leaves, come back again ! 
Linger awhile, short was your reign ; 

Love to you cleaves, 
Oh stay with us yet 

Sweet Autumn leaves. 



Dead leaves of Autumn, 
Dead leaves, how sad you seem, 
Frail as hope's transient beam. 
Blooming too brightly, 

Twining around 
Each loving heart, 
With fancy crowned. 
But when they prize you, you wither and die, 
And they gaze on your fall with a sigh ; 
Calling you back, 
With fresh hope on your track. 



BELOVED ONE. 

Dead Autumn leaves, one last farewell ! 
Short was your reign, o'er vale and dell. 

Love to you cleaves, 

"While we're saying farewell, 

Dear Autumn 1 



BELOVED ONE. 

Last evening, when the twilight crept 

In silence o'er the shy, 
And every little star that slept 

Ee-opened its bright eye, 
My heart, my foolish heart was glad 

Beneath their light so clear, 
And earth in one bright robe was clad, 
For he I loved was near. 

Beloved one, I heard thy voice, 
And earth with me could but rejoice, 
Beloved one ! 



A WITHERED FLOWER. 

This eve the twilight is as fair, 
The stars as hright as then, 
And yet my breast is full of care, 

The world is dark again. 
The charm has faded from my heart 

Whose spell made all so dear, 
And pride forbids the tear to start 
Because he is not near. 

Beloved one, without thy smiles, 
No earthly joy my heart beguiles, 
Beloved one ! 



A WITHERED FLOWER. 

I'll crush this withered blossom, I shall cast it now 

aside, 
And think no more that I was glad while he was by 

my side ; 



188 A WITHERED FLOWER. 

And ne'er recall with grief again his coldness in 

that hour, 
When from his careless hand I look this treasured 

little flower. 
Ah ! yes, I'll crush it, since my heart with pride and 

wisdom glows, 
And it can never feel a pang to tear this withered rose. 

Yet what is staying now my hand, while fear my 
bosom heaves, 

I cannot break the sapless stem, and tears are on 
the leaves. 

Alas ! my pride alone is crushed, I have no strength 
to part 

From this poor faded thing that grows so deeply in 
my heart. 

Ah ! no, I'll hide it in this book, and from this grief- 
fraught hour, 

No other heart shall know that mine so loves a 
withered flower. 



LONELY HOURS. 



VICE AND VIRTUE'S DAYDREAMS. 



Look within a garret lonely, 

Where no summer sun can beam, 
Where no voice of love or kindness, 

Like a ray from heaven, can gleam. 
See, where on a wretched pallet, 

Tosses wildly to and fro, 
One who, broken down by sorrow, 

Lays his head thus sad and low. 
Ah ! 'tis vice that's left forsaken — 

Suffering — dying — all alone — 
While keen anguish racks his bosom 

And we hear the painful moan. 
See that hair now streaked with silver, 

Not, alas ! with honoured threads, 



3 LONELY HOUES. 

And that brow so dark and wrinkled, 

TW youth's lamp its lustre sheds. 
Once that brow was smooth, unsullied ; 

Once that form was loved with pride ; 
Once each word and look was cherished ; 

Once hope lingered by his side. 
Why is every joy thus vanished, 

Leaving poverty so nigh ? 
Why is there no love now bending 

O'er his wretched couch ? ah ! why ? 
List, oh ! listen to his ravings, 

Where no hopes their vigils keep ; 
'Tis remorse that now is murmuring, 

Let us pause, alas ! and weep. 

" why this dismal silence. Not a sound 

Or light to chase away this weary gloom ! 
What crawling horrors compass me around ? 

My soul seems living in a loathsome tomb. 
My body's one foul sepulchre of hope, 

Which sin has nmrder'd with his treacherous hand. 
Each fibre with the worms of woe doth cope ; 

My brain seems turned to India's scorching sand. 
parching thirst ! is there no friend to bring 

One cup of water for my burning throat ? 
Avaunt ! avaunt ! what is that grinning thing 

That o'er my madd'ning wretchedness doth gloat ? 



LONELY HOURS. 3 

Avaunt ! I say. cursed be the hour 

That yon black phantom shadowed all my will. 
Go, fell remorse, thou snake within the flow'r, [kill. 

Thou'st hid thy fangs till thou could'st spring and 
What have I now to do with thee ? -"lis late 

To rouse the throbs that once my heart could save ; 
When blood and pulse are turned to gall and hate, 

And soul has long become the body's slave. 
How my head beats ! this pillow 's very hard — 

This cold straw pallet gives no ease nor rest — 
No one comes near me — ha ! the door is barred, 

Excluding hope, the veriest wretch's guest. 
O could I reach it — could I draw aside 

That iron rod ! No, no ; it must remain, 
And here in loneliness must I abide, 

Without a voice to soothe my grief and pain. 
Is there no pity ? must I die alone ? 

Here in this hovel — am I doomed to die ? 
No sound except the wind, whose dismal moan, 

Seems but with anguish and with death to sigh. 
Oh ! I am very, very sad and chill ; 

Once I was — God, hi mercy spare me now ! 
Keep down mad memory lest he rise and kill 

And tear the wither'd skin from cheek and brow. 
0, I was once — those words, how they come yet ! 

Turn me to stone ere I bring back again 



4 LONELY HOUES. 

My sunny childhood : let me all forget — 

'Tis woe too deep to think what I was then. 
What is this drop ? — great heaven ! a tear, a tear 

Prom eyes like mine — this drop to fall from me ! 
Sweet dew of feeling, welcome now and dear, 

The last I shed was by my mother's knee, 
My mother ! my mother dare I name ; 

That name again so sacred to each heart ; 
I, who have bow'd thy gentle head with shame, 

And torn love's ties, so rudely, all apart ? 
I, who was once a little sinless child, 

The joy, the hope, the treasure of thy life ; 
I, who have seen thy anguish, keen and wild, 

And cut thy fond heart with the ingrate's knife! 
Again thy pale lips come before my gaze, 

Quivering with grief that then I laughed to scorn — 
My father, all indignant, oft would raise 

His hand, to curse the hour that I was born ; 
And thou, my faithful mother, thou would'st cry — 

c Stay, stay thy hand — in pity, be kind ; 
Ere thou shalt curse, let me, in mercy, die. 

It must not be — he is — he is our child/ 
Oh ! where wast thou, my guardian angel, then ? 

That nothing but the demon could have sway ; 
A mother's prayer recalled far sterner men 

And led them from the paths of vice away. 



LONELY HOURS. 5 

But I was callous, heartless ; not a spark 

Of good could kindle in my spirit's fire. 
Is there no verdant spot I yet can mark, 

Amid the weary waste, so drear and dire ? 
Ah, yes ! 'twas in my schoolboy's giddy hours, 

'When first I launched upon life's sunny sea ; 
Whenhope's bright bark was brimming o'erwithflow'rs, 

And joy's fair hand dropp'd them within the lee j 
When that sweet tide was all a sunny lake, 

Gilded with peace most calm and fair to view, 
Where not a breath of sorrow e'er could break 

The slumbering surface of that placid blue; 
Where buds of bliss dipp'd gently in life's stream, 

Till glow'd with rosy tints each radiant stem, 
Which reared their heads again, while each would seem 

A sparkling jewel or a glitt'ring gem ; 
When I would watch those blossoms floating'still, 

And thought the tide would bring them back once more; 
When innocence alone my breast could fill, 

Even when I leaned upon gay pleasure's oar ; 
That time, when I could watch the op'ning bloom 

Of those poor flowrets, as I sailed along, 
Unthinking of the twilight's gath'ring gloom, 

List'ning alone to fancy's fairy song : 
Oh ! I was happy then, for I was good — ■ 

Thou wast a star, my mother, worshipp'd well. 



6 LONELY HOURS. 

But soon I on temptation's threshold stood, 

Then virtue died and anguish chimed its knell. 
Companions wild misled the stripling youth, 

Who followed and was blinded by their mirth ; 
Then, then black falsehood shadowed all my truth, 

And I became a blight upon our hearth. 
I drained the wine-cup and its sparkling tide 

Inflamed my senses with the wildest joy — 
I soon became the gambler's dupe and pride, 

And deemed my winnings bliss without alloy. 
I did not think that they could ever bring 

Me to the mouth of hell, so wide aud steep, 
Could show the flame beneath and downward fling 

Soul, body, all, within its furnace deep ! 
But so it was a blight fell on my life, 

A cankering worm that rotted stem and bough — 
The leaflets withered 'neath the tempest's strife, 

And I became the thing that I am now. 
I loved — ah, yes ! I loved, but that to me, 

Which all the world calls bliss was torturing fire, 
A seeming rose full blooming on its tree, 

That hid beneath a sharp and vicious brier. 
She loved me not, yet never looked in scorn, 

But simply said another claimed her hand, 
One whom she loved almost from childhood'' s morn, 

Who long had journey' d in a foreign land. 



LONELY HOURS. 7 

Her gentle "words increased my passion more, 

Like one small drop of water on a flame, 
Whose opposition carries all before — 

I vowed to bring that pure young heart to shame ! 
I hid my purpose, and she called me friend, 

Looked up to me with honour and respect. 
So months rolled on ; hypocrisy must end ; 

I told her that her lover's ship was wrecked. 
I seemed to feel her grief, for I could weep, 

But they were tears of joy at her wild woe. 
I thought a woman's sorrow was not deep, 

That thus could bubble in such noisy flow. 
Next day I sought her cottage ; she was there, 

Like a crushed shrub, within that lonely shade ; 
I saw her anguish — saw her deep despair- 
Saw all her agony my falsehood made — • 
Yet did not pause, but gloated o'er my plot. 

My bark was ready and she should be mine. 
Alas ! that night — that maid— that struggling cot — 

All rise before me on that surging brine. * 
I took her hand and bade her to be calm, 

That I had joyful tidings to impart ; 
And kindled by the sympathetic balm, 

A new-born light sprang up within her heart. 
I said her lover lived — that he was saved, 

But lay exhausted at the wayside inn, 



LONELY HOUItS. 

And now to see her loving face, he craved/ 

And I, her grateful smiles, had fled to win. 
She bade me take her there without delay — 

(Thus Satan worked his dark and evil charms.) 
I placed her in my boat — it flew away — 

I caught the eager maiden in my arms. 
f Now, now thou'rt mine/ I cried, in savage glee, 

' No power shall part us, for thy lover 's dead/ 
She heard my words — looked madly on the sea — 

'Till sight and sense, alas ! had from her fled ! 

1 watched her trembling orbs — pressed my hot lips 

To her pure brow. My touch upon that snow 
Fell with the shadows of my soul's eclipse. 

Her brow was sullied by my kisses' glow — 
She roused her from her swoon — glanced sadly up- 
Bounded, in loathing, from my close embrace. 
Then horror emptied, drained my bitter cup, 

She leaped into the billows' boiling space ! 
Enough ! enough ! Oh ! mem'ry close thy gate — 

Let me not look within that dreary blank ; 
There, nothing but the weeds of sin and hate 

Upon that soil, can grow all foul and rank. 
I gazed upon her, as she lay so still 

There at my feet, most lovely e'en in death ; 
I, who adored her, could that sweet maid kill — 

Tear from her loving heart its latest breath ! 



LONELY HOURS. 9 

I left my native land — sought change afar — 

But still that murdered maid would haunt my soul — 
Her name was written on each flower and star, 

And traced in blood-red letters on life's scroll. 
I sought the stormy main — ploughed o'er the deep, 

But oh ! her face rose up with every wave — 
And conscience lives cold vigils still to keep 

For ever by that maiden's lonely grave. 
I sought out war — alas ! its tide of blood [veins. 

Seemed like the drops that coursed in her young 
I flew alike from battle-field and flood, 

And, oh ! the curse of mem'ry yet remains. 
I was a fugitive — an outcast wretch — 

The flaming brand of murder seared my heart, 
"While vengeance still its angry hand would stretch 

To tear my soul and body all apart. 
Each path I took, tho' morning, noon, or night, 

Her image stalked beside me as I went ; 
Remorse kept pressing me with all his might, 

Till weary years of torture had been spent ; 
Then e'en to me was soothing time most kind, 

And mem'ry lost its keenest, sharpest sting, 
As tho' a mist had gather'd near my mind, 

Which Nature did, in mercy, o'er it fling ; 
And then I loved again, but with a love 

I ne'er would deem a heart like mine could feel — 



10 LONELY HOUESr 

A love like inspiration from above, 

Free from the dross of passion, pure and real — 
A love as tho' a cherub angel smiled 

From his high home and I had caught the ray, 
Which shone, reflected in a lustre, mild, 

Upon my heart, to turn its night to day ! 
'Twas on a summer's evening and the sky, 

In azure beauty, smiled upon the earth ; 
Each zephyr breathed an od'rous balmy sigh, 

While little babes of flowrets sprung to birth. 
Along a verdant track, whose mossy shade 

Was studded o'er with starry blossoms rare, 
Whose tender leaves embroidered bank and glade, 

As tho' gay fairies loved to linger there. 
I roamed within that sweet sequestered spot, 

Till coming near a bower of ivfd bloom, 
I paused — a change came o'er my soul and lot, 

As tho' a light burst on my spirit's gloom. 
A vision rose before my wond'ring sight, 

Fair as a lovely seraph from above, 
Whose sparkling beauty should each heart delight, 

And coldest stoic move to maddest love! 
A maid, half child, half woman, gay and coy, 

So very young and innocent she seemed, 
Her radiant features glowing o'er with joy, 

While dark eyes archly from their fringes gleamed. 



LONELY HOURS. 11 

"Within her hands some crhnson berries gloVd, 

Which 'round a canine favourite's neck were clasped; 
Her rippling ringlets o'er his broad back fiow'd, 

His glossy coat her pillow, while he grasped. 
In loving sport, the berries in her hand, 

And gently barked to hear her shVry laugh ; 
While I, who stood as on enchanted land, 

The magic cup of bliss began to quaff. 
Our eyes soon met. She started, all alarm' d, 

Covered with sweet confusion, with a spring 
From where she lay, shrank back. More was Icharm'd, 

Yet felt man's gaze profane so pure a thing. 
Her favorite moved and would have bitten sore, 

To find a stranger on such hallow'd ground — ■ 
She raised her finger and he crouched once more, 

But angrily within the distance growled. 
She trembled — smiled. I heard her silv'ry voice — 

No earthly music ever was so sweet ; 
Heart flew to heart and made our souls rejoice, 

While every throb in unison could beat ; 
She never deemed the hand that held her own, 

Was reeking with the blood of one once dear ; 
She trusted me within that spot so lone ; 

Ah ! sweetest child, thou had'st no cause to fear, 
Bad tho' I was, thy innocence and love 

Claimed for thy helplessness my manhood's pride, 



12 LONELY HOURS. 

My treach'rous soul from guilt could rise above 

The passiou that once sunk me 'neath its tide. 
A star had risen in my cloudy sky ; 

A star I hoped that would not ever set, 
And thus the summer days went swiftly by, 

While in that bower we every evening met. 
A holy charm had woven round my life, 

Upon my lot had cast its sacred spell — 
That lovely maid became my honored wife, 

Oh ! how I loved her mortal could not tell. 
I often thought that God had never given 

To man, the language half the depth to trace 
A love like mine, that found its germ in heaven ; 

And through my heart had blossomed all life's space. 
But when did vice for ever scatheless go ? 

Mine, in the waves of bitterness, was toss'd. 
One glimpse of paradise could only show 

My guilty soul, all, all that it had lost. 
But one brief space of bliss was given to me, 

When from its height I was to sorrow dashed. 
Pure, guiltless child ! oh ! how I injured thee, 

When first my breast with jealousy was lashM ! 
She loved me well — yet I suspicious grew— 

Checked all her actions — watched her every glance— 
And oft to frenzy, I, for nothing, flew, 

While she would writhe as 'neath the keenest lance. 



LONELY HOURS. 13 

Her pure soul shrank from e'en a thought of wrong, 

And turned to its own being for relief, 
As lilies crouch beneath a blast too strong, 

And closer fold each tender spotless leaf; 
A cloud arose between our hearts' true light, 

And spreading, parted us each day the more, 
Until it gather'd like the blackest night, 

And shadow'd all faith's lustre o'er, and o'er. 
Again I sought the wine cup, and one morn 

At daybreak, when I sought my wife and home, 
Reproach was in her look, I cursed in scorn, 

And in a drunken rage did swear and foam ; 
She could not speak, but raised her tearful eyes, 

In silent sorrow at my wretched state. 
She saw bright hope deprived of all his dyes, 

And dying fast before the frown of fate ; 
She felt the woe, the keenest, deepest woe, 

That ever falls upon a woman's soul, 
That forces all the tide of grief to flow, 

And o'er despair's sharp stones to ebb and roll. 
She saw the idol that her love had rear'd, 

Crumble in bitterness to very dust ; 
She felt its vacant place all dry and sear'd, 

The pedestal defaced with mould and rust. 
Oh ! had she only spoken in reproach, 

The dastard coward's brand was spared me then ; 



14 LONELY HOURS. 

My craven lips, as now, had never broach'd 

What makes a man a blot 'mid fellow men — ■ 
What makes a man fall from his own esteem — 

And sink beneath the honoured name he bore, 
That makes him lose the latest, faintest gleam 

Of man's estate, to claim it never more. 
I raised my hand, it fell, it fell oh ! where ? 

No wonder moisture gathers on my brow — 
I struck her, struck that child so young and fair, 

And soon in shame my sober'd head should bow ; 
That blow 'twas light, and yet it sunk so deep, 

In heavy agony on heart and brain — 
She spoke not of it, would not even weep, 

And yet it broke each thread of life in twain. 
I saw her step grow weak, her form and face 

Lose all the brightness of the days gone by ; 
My shame she sought with kindness to efface. 

One day she told me that she soon must die ; 
I tried to soothe the sadd'ning thought away, 

And on my efforts she would sweetly smile — 
Alas ! I saw the strides of cold decay 

Were marking well their progress all the while. 
Ah ! there was nought that love or hope could move, 

But was devised to save her precious life ; 
Alas ! Alas ! that all should fruitless prove, [strife. 

The heart once crushed, soon withers 'neath the 



LOXELY HOURS, 15 

So day by day she faded, till at length 

Life's last faint spark its flick 'ring lustre shed, 
Yet all her hope still lived in its first strength, 

And waver' d not until her heart was dead. 
One eve, at twilight, roused from calm repose, 

She bade me let her see the sky once more ; 
The fair young moon in silvery sheen arose 

Upon that drooping form, her beams to pour. 
She seemed to smile a welcome on that child, 

And cast a halo on her spotless brow, 
"Who raised her gentle eyes so pure and mild, 

And calmly said, ' sweet Christ, I'm ready now/ 
Oh ! then she turned to me, press' d one long kiss 

Upon my livid lips — lay lingering there, 
My last of happiness — my last of bliss, 

Too soon converted into this despair. 
She clasped my hand, and gently, gently bent 

Her dying head upon my heaving breast — 
While deathless love a heavenly lustre lent 

To cheek and brow — then, then she sunk to rest. 
I gazed upon the beauteous, breathless clay, 

And felt the hand of justice o'er me still ; 
The murder'd maiden's grave, then far away, 

Had called for vengeance — blood for blood to spill . 
All broken down with grief, that burning thought, 

Glow'd in my bosom and consumed my brain, 



16 LONELY HOURS. 

And then again my native land I sought, 

Oh ! maddening tortures, endless grief and pain ! 
I saw my home — it was a ruin'd waste — 

No father's hand, no mother's smile I met — 
That bitter drop within my cup I taste — 

Upon my lips, my parching lips e'en yet ! 
They both were dead, and I their ingrate son, 

Had brought their hairs with sorrow to the grave. 
My course of sin at length is nearly run — 

Great God, have mercy ! save my soul, save ! 
Is there no pity ? must I die alone ? 

Here in this garret — am I doomed to die ! 
Hark ! what is that ? is it some friendly tone ? 

Or is it but the tempest's mournful sigh ? 
No one comes near me ! where shall I find peace ? 

This covering is so scant, this room so cold. 
Could death, e'en death, my misery release. 

What would eternity to me unfold ? 
Oh ! let me turn from thee, my weary past, 

Where every action with remorse must glow, 
Where self-respect no rays on it can cast, 

Or soothing thought remain for me, ah, no ! 
And must I die ? alas ! it is too soon. 

Whose is that face ? this room is growing dark — 
Is it the shadow of the clouded noon ? 

What is that sound, that moan, that voice ? hark ! 



LONELY HOURS. 17 

'Tis gone — but what is that ? a maid, a star, 
It fades in darkness — see ! oh, now 'tis set. 

Help, mercy help — alas ! that door, that bar — 
I must not die, God — not yet — not yet/' 



Hark ! the evening bells are ringing, 

Gladdening ev'ry mead and glade, 
While young flowers are gaily springing 

From each mossy bed and shade. 
Violets now are coyly peeping 

At the yellow cowslip fair, 
Whose young buds are calmly sleeping, 

Cradled in sweet leaflets there. 
See beneath yon spreading willow, 

One that's with the world at rest, 
Gazing on the dancing billow, 

Smiling at its playful crest. 
O 'tis Virtue that is dreaming, 

Happy thoughts he yet can trace, 
Blissful lights around him gleaming, 

Still illumining all life's space. 
He has fought its battle bravely, 

And the victory has won ; 



18 LONELY HOURS. 

So he pauses calm and gravely, 

O'er the course that he has run, 
Thanking God for every blessing 

That has crown'd his grateful brow ; 
If eekly all his faults confessing 

■'Neath the mellow sunlight now. 
Hark then, while these bells are ringing, 

Let us rest beside him here, 
And the thought that's gayly springing, 

May an idle moment cheer. 



" Be still, gay world, and let my fancy dream 

The dreams of childhood, with its happy hours, 
That o'er my mind steal like a calm moon-beam, 

And seem to light up all night's closing flowers. 
J Tis true my hair is white and I am old, 

But ah ! my heart is young within me yet, 
And one by one, as mem'ry's leaves unfold, 

I find I could not one sweet page forget. 
Not unto all, and least to me was given, 

To serve humanity by gifts of mind ; 
I stole no fire, Prometheus-like, from heaven, 

To dazzle others while myself was blind. 
Mine was no patriot's, sage's, warrior's fame, 

But holy teachers had inspired my youth 



LONELY HOURS. 19 

With lieav'n-born passions fed on purer flame, 

To serve my kind, and act on grace and truth. 
Time's mirror can reflect past radiance now, 

That darts as swiftly as a rainbow's kiss, 
.Spanning the heav'ns above the mountain's brow, 

And fading ere its lovely smile we miss. 
Thus thought grows dim ere yet to memory's throne 

Some can ascend to reign supreme once more ; 
So echoes will repeat some far off tone, 

The ear but startle, when the sound is o'er ; 
Now mem'ry travels thro' long vistas sweet, 

And finds some living leaflets 'midst the dead ; 
While others stretch their stamens young, to greet 

The flow'rs that have a fuller radiance shed ; 
I turn to look upon my joyous past, 

And find some sweetness in each bitter cup, 
I feel the light of truth can lustre cast 

On ev'ry thought that from my soul looks up. 
It never yet has fall'n to man's estate 

To have no care mix'd in the draught of life ; 
'Twas heaven's will that ev'ry mortal's fate 

Should know the calm of peace, and sorrow's strife. 
Oh ! I am grateful for my changeful lot ; 

Thank God for all my clouds, and sunshine too ; 
Nor e'en a passage from life's book I'd blot, 

But lean on Christ with faith all firm and true. 



20 LONELY HOUftS. 

O ! Fancy, weave thy net-work on, for still, 

Safe from the dark and spoiling hand of time, 
Thy meshes all my bosom yet can thrill, 

And with my being's threads thy chords can twine. 
Then hnsh, gay world, and let me dream the dreams 

Wrought from the past with all its hope and joy ; 
While o'er my cradle now a sweet face leans, 

Whose red lips murmur still, "my cherub boy.'" 
My mother dear, each gentle tone and look 

Of thine within my heart are dwelling yet ; 
Thou'rt planted high in memory's holiest nook, 

Thou guiding star thro' life that never set. 
Well I remember all thy tender care, [night f' 

Thy loving smile when thou would'st breathe "good 
Thy tapping fingers stroked along my hair, 

That curPd like vines around a stem so bright. 
Again, before me is thy joy and pride, 

When first from father's arms I ran in glee, 
And clung with totfring footsteps to thy side, 

Or laughing loudly scrambled on thy knee. 
Then came the sports of merry school-boy days, 

With life all sunshine, and its treasures new, 
When I would race along the verdant ways 

To cull the blossoms that around them grew. 
When I was sheltered by love's fostering care, 

Its home, the only world I yet had known ; 



LONELY HOLES. 21 

When life's young sky was cloudless, sweet, and fair, 

Sparkling with stars of hope, I called mine own. 
Thy form with years is bent, my mother, now, 

And wrinkled furrows mark my father's face; 
Yet love and honour crown each happy brow, 

And soon immortal crowns those brows shall grace. 
But soon to me a younger vision came, 

More lovely in the stripling's fancy wild, 
When my young heart confest its earliest flame, 

In trembling accents, to a maiden child. 
I'd rather feel that happiness again, 

With its heart-burnings, and its doubts, and fears, 
Than live a life all free from grief and pain, 

Than from my shoulders cast the weight of years. 
My blood still hotly courses in my veins, 

Whene'er I think of thee, my soul's pure light, 
Whose flame illumed my path, and still remains 

Steady in storms, 'mid clouds and darkness bright. 
Yes, thou wert but a child ; a sweet wee thing, 

With locks like sunbeams, and with eyes dark brown; 
A face so fair that heaven seem'd to fling 

Its gems on earth thy radiant brow to crown. 
One joyful day upon our village green, 

When nature smil'd in summer's glory gay, 
Of all the children, thou wert chosen queen, 

Chosen the laughing, merry queen of May. 



22 LONELY HOURS. 

Oil ! how my proud heart swelTd with honest care, 

That thou should'st be all faultlessly array'd; 
What peals of mirth then echo'd through the air, 

While bon-fires lighted up each lonely glade. 
And then my heart to very bursting grew, 

When thou did'st turn to me thy drooping eyes, 
And by their silent language well I knew, 

Mine was the only praise that thou didst prize, 
Oh ! happy children ! happy girl and boy ! 

We were each other's world, each other's pride ; 
ISo heavy wisdom could our breasts annoy, 

Each evening found us seated side by side. 
I've often seen thine eyes in slumber close, 

Besting thy head on me, my hand in thine : 
Like flow'rs whose leaflets rarer tints disclose, 

When with the ivy it can sweetly twine. 
I guarded thee — an angel well might smile, 

Such purity upon the earth to see ; 
Oh ! happy, happy day, all free from guile, 

On feathered pinions thou didst swiftly flee. 
So hours of childhood soon were pass'd and gone ; 

Oh ! dearest spot in memory's verdant soil, 
O'ergrown with blossoms in that mossy lawn 

That no rude hand could ever crush or spoil. 
Sweet recollections, ne'er to fade away, 

Still gleam upon my path, as now most fair, 



LOXELY HOURS. 23 

Thy lamp around me casts full many a ray, 

To warm each throb once chill'd by grief or care. 
The star of destiny for us arose 

To brighten all the earth, when we two met ; 
And Mary, still its lustre sweetly glows, 

And cannot fade until life's sun is set. 
Our childhood pass'd, its joys we did not miss, 

Tho' oft we thought of them with happy pride ; 
But soon the ether of a dearer bliss 

Fell on our hearts, for, wast thou not my bride ? 
Oh ! on that morn how beautiful wast thou, 

Looking still onward with a faith so sure ? 
The orauge blossom, trembling on thy brow, 

Was not so lovely, was not half so pure ! 
Thou wert then like a snow- drop, opening fair, 

Placed in my bosom, thus to bloom thro' life ; 
Cherish' d with all my fondest, tend'rest care, 

Heart of my heart, my own, my gentle wife. 
Hope smiled upon our home, years added love, 

And children gather'd 'round our happy hearth ; 
Our souls were turn'd to better joy above, 

From whence our faith derives its glorious birth. 
What holy joy when twilight shades would melt 

To night's deep shadows, when we bow'din prayer, 
Devotedly our loving children knelt, 

And for each other claim'd God's peace and care. 



24 LONELY HOTJRS. 

And then our daughter with a reverend hand 

Would take the Bible while we listen' d all, 
To read and ponder the great King's command. 

While hearts beat high to hear the mighty call. 
Those blessings still remain to prove in age 

A staff of comfort where we calmly rest, 
And hear our children's counsels firm and sage, 

And joy fid mark the faith of each young breast. 
For God's great harvest I am ripe, I ween, 

And do not care how soon or late it be, 
If 'tis His will to call me from life's scene, 

True faith shall waft me o'er the shoreless sea. 
I look within my heart, and oh ! I read, 

That malice never sullied e'en a page. 
I loved my fellow men, helped them in need, 

With honest labour did my hands engage ; 
'Twas God that kept me, and, my Mary dear, 

Thou wert a help-mate true to me and mine, 
Thou'st soothed each sorrow, calmed my every fear, 

No heart so faithful, dearest wife, as thine. 
Thy hair once golden, now is turned to gray, 

Thy rounded cheek, alas I is worn and pale ; 
Thy youth's first bloom is faded quite away, 

And, oh ! I grieve to see thy strength doth fail ; 
Yes, beauty's faded, but it has not fled, 

More touchingly to me thou'rt lovely still, 



LONELY HOL T KS. 25 

And dearer far than e'en when thou wast wed, 

And youthful transports every vein could fill. 
Ah ! yes, thou 'rt dearer, grown so in my heart, 

That death alone could root thee from thy place ; 
And oh ! the hour that rends our love apart, 

Shall from the lingering breast all joy efface. 
I've seen a flow'r that grew beside an oak, 

And twined its tendrils •'round its stem for years ; 
But when 'twas levelled by the woodman's stroke, 

It died as thou wouldst die in grief and tears ; 
I often thought that e'en the oak would miss 

The tender buds that clung around its strength, 
And pine to lose their faithful smile and kiss, 

And lonely feel, would wither too at length. 
Well, well, 'tis time to cease those idle dreams, 

I'll hie me to my peaceful homestead now ; 
How beautiful the mellow sunlight gleams 

On that luxurious hawthorn's bending bough, 
Ah me ! those by-gone days — well, let them be, 

I'm yet as happy, aye, and happier far. 
Oh ! how I love to watch the bounding sea, 

"Welcome thou calm and lovely evening star. 
How kind is God — ah ! more than good and kind, 
Such beauteous blessings on our path to fling ; 
Where'er we go, where'er we look, we find 
His bounteous hand o'er all and every thing. 



26 LONELY HOURS. 

Ah me ! — those arms, well, well, old wife, -'tis thou- 

Why, why dispel my dreamings thus so soon ? 
Come hither, dear, upon thy honest brow 

I still can trace the sweets of girlhood's bloom; 
Thy smile is soft, thy cheek is very fair, 

Thine eyes still beam with all the light of yore ; 
Thou'rt not much changed save in this silken hair, 

Which silver streaks so very calmly o'er ; 
Ah ! Mary dear, I love those deep brown eyes, 

Where truth shoots forth with ev'ry passing ray, 
Where love still blends with faint December dyes, 

As bright a glow as in their radiant May. 
The reaper, Death, shall find us when he'll come, 

Together clinging with undying love. 
Almost together we shall find that home, 

And sing together near the throne above. 
I've roam'd throughout the pilgrimage of years, 

And mark'd each footstep that thro' life I've trod— 
Our grateful hearts, all free from doubt or fears, 

In mighty hope reposes on our God. 
List, Mary dear, list to those evening bells, 

To-night fair Nature looks her very best — 
See yonder billow how it heaves and swells, 

While diamonds sparkle on its joyous crest. 
What is that sound ? — 'tis Willy's merry laugh, 

Willy our youngest, latest hope and pride ; 



LONELY HOURS. 27 

And here comes father -with his oaken staff ; 

Here, honoured sire, sit by my Mary's side. 
Oh ! it is sweet to linger thus and muse, 

To note faith shining on each happy brow, 
To feel resigned our earthly all to lose, 

In gaining Heaven. — God ! we're ready now." 



LONELY HOUKS. 



MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 

THOu'rt sunk to rest — then evening sun, good night. 
May zephyrs lull thee in sweet slumbers light, 
And hum around thy azure bed their song, 
O glorious dynast of the heavenly throng. 
Lie peaceful there, great monarch of the day, 
With clouds of gathering eve in rosy grey 
To cover thee ; then rest thy weary brow 
Upon the pillow twilight's spreading now. 
Sweet moon, arise ! pale queen of night more fair 
Than all the splendour, all the gilded glare 
Of that proud king, whose looks so fiercely bold 
Thou shrink'st from, like some maiden coy or cold ; 
Tarrying within thy chamber till he's gone, 
When thou dost put thy crown of silver on, 
And robe thee for the throne, outshining all 
The lesser beauties of the starry hall, 
Where thou dost reign in majesty and might, 
Friend of the poor and guardian of the night. 
Dare we to idols ever bend a knee. 
Who would not join in worshipping of thee ? 
Thou looFst indeed like some sweet angel nun, 
Veil'd in pale clouds, whose heavenly crown is won. 



LONELY HOUES. 29 

Kind nioon, now pour thy radiance on this scene, 
Spread rarest jewels o'er this shady green, 
Illume yon cottage with thy gentle beams, 
Whose porch is open to thy rippling streams. 
Upon its threshold see that tender girl 
Who fondly gazes on each drop of pearl ; 
Each sparkling diamond of the night's fair dew, 
Then waves her hand to bid them all adieu. 
A stalwart youth supports her drooping form. 
And in a scarlet mantle soft and warm 
Envelopes her, then leads her gently on, 
With tott'ring footsteps o'er the verdant lawn. 
Onward, most tenderly, they go and keep 
Their hands enlock'd, but she, alas ! doth weep, 
And trembling, lifts above her sunken eye, 
And sadly murmurs, " ah ! 'tis soon to die ; 
Fain would I live, for while thou lov'st me so, 
Earth hath bright charms, life's tide in joy doth flow. 
pow'r of love, thou, thou could'st turn to bliss, 
E'en the sad thought of our last parting kiss." 
" Hush ! my belov'd," the sadden'd youth replies, 
u In pity for my anguish and my sighs ; 
We yet may ward away death's chilling hand. 
Ha ! do I weep — what — am I so unmann'd ? 
Away, weak tears ; alas ! my heavy soul 
Doth sink beneath the fears that o'er it roll. 



30 LONELY HOURS. 

Be hopeful, darling, let thy smile impart 
New life and light within my breaking heart." 
Well might he tremble for that treasured fair — 
Upon her cheeks, along her golden hair, 
Paling her lips and pressing on her brow, 
So young, so soft, yet droop'd in anguish now, 
Seemed Death to put his impress cold and dull, 
And yet she smiTd her husband's fears to lull, 
Then jested, gaily, with such seeming pride, 
Who would have guess'd 'twas failing strength to hide? 
Ah ! the deep woe to see a lov'd one fade 
Away — away from us, and earth thus made 
All drear and sunless. ! to miss the smile 
That could thine ev'ry trifling care beguile ; 
To feel the void, to miss each gentle tone, 
Each look and gesture — feel alone, alone 
Without the heart on which thou long did'st rest 
In confidence and hope ; the faithful breast 
Where every feeling met an answering chord, 
And sympathy express'd by look or word : 
To feel the sad, the blighting misery 
Without thine all — the universe to thee — 
Without the love that made thy home so bright, 
Thine earth a heaven, and thy darkness light ! 
With pain like this, yet smiling, too, to hide 
The woe he felt, he led his drooping bride 



LONELY HOLES. 31 

Unto a stile, a fair and mossy seat, 
And threw himself, half kneeling, at her feet, 
Gazing within her earnest eyes to read 
Her ev'ry thought and feel his bosom bleed. 
" Sing thou to me and fill, with music soft, 
The air," she said, and looked and spoke as oft. 
She seem'd an angel, gentle, sinless, kind, 
Round whom sweet charity and virtue twined. 
Oh ! the mad pain — to stifle every fear — 
To check each sigh, repress each rising tear ; 
To wreathe the lips with careless jest or smile, 
And feel the lone heart breaking all the while ; 
Like ice that crushes, but that cannot kill 
The flower it leans on, with its pressure chill. 
Thus did he smile, and then arose a strain 
Erom his rich voice, as if no heavy pain 
Were weighing on his heart ; again he sang, 
And ev'ry echo with the music rang. — 
Thy smile is sad to-night, my love, 

Where joy was wont to shine, 
And every sigh thy heart can move, 

Is echoed back by mine. 
Art thou not glad, when I am here, 

With kindness in each tone, 
Whose love had ever power to cheer. 
My beautiful — mine own ? 



32 LONELY HOURS. 

I'll sing to thee, for music's charm 

Thou'st never heard in vain ; 
'Twill lull to rest each vague alarm, 

And win back smiles again ; 
Then come, my lute, wake up thy lay, 

In softest, sweetest tone, 
Until I see thee light and gay, 

My beautiful — mine own. 

He ceased — and gently on her knee 
He laid his head, most tenderly ; 
Then rose the tide of anxious thought, 
With wildest grief and madness fraught, 
Until sad slumber o'er him beamed, 
And then, in anguish, thus he dream'd : 
" Oh ! my belov'd, when thou art gone, 
I — I shall be unlov'd alone ; 
Without thee, what's this world to me ? 
A soil where grows no shrub nor tree ; 
A desert, where no spot of green 
Can e'er relieve the dreary scene. 
Alas ! alas ! if thou must die, 
Oh ! would to heaven then that I 
Might rest with thee in death's calm sleep, 
Nor loss, nor pain to feel and weep ; 
How could I breathe the last farewell, 
How listen to the parting knelL, 



LOXELY HOURS. 33 

How yield up all that now is mine, 

How sever ties that round me twine ? 

O, nature must her throne forsake, 

Or this true heart first burst or break." 
" Hush, hush, make me not wish for life, 
It is denied, and thy fond wife, 
Belov'd, must die, from thee must go, 
Yet still Fll watch o'er thee below ; 
Ah ! yes, for surely heaven allows 
The spirit of a faithful spouse 
To guard the lovM, with love so sure 
As mine for thee, all sweet and pure." 

" Dear one 'tis fruitless thus to speak, 

Thy death, my earthly ties would break ; 

If thou must go, my own sweet wife, 

What is there left to gladden life ?' 

" Peace, dearest, peace, those words, oh ! stay ! 

On earth I cannot long delay ; 

Then let us lift our thoughts on high, 

To Him who reigns above the sky, 

Where soon Fll rest and meet with joy, 

LoVd friends in bliss without alloy : 

Then speak not of thy grief or pain, 

For, dearest, we shall meet again." 

" Oh ! spare her, heaven, my hope, my pride, 

Leave for a while my c'arliug bride ! 
4 



34 LOISELY HOUKS. 

How could I live to think upon 

The fate that snatched away mine own, 

My love, the treasure of my life, 

Which I have guarded through all strife ? 

How could I ses the flow'r God gave 

Wither and crumble to the grave ? 

Oh ! when 'twas given first to me, 

It was so blooming, fresh, and free — 

But soon its tints began to fade, 

Too soon its early bloom decay'd. 

Yet, still there is a flush that lingers, 

Even while death's icy fingers 

Are gathering for an early tomb 

A flow'r that never more can bloom. 

Decline, the harbinger of death, 

Had breath'd its pestilential breath, 

And snatched from me each precious leaf — 

And death is coming like a thief, 

Armed with unseen, though mighty pow'r 

To steal away my gentle flow'r ! 

Oh ! death, be kind, be satisfied 

To spare awhile my gentle bride ; 

To see her placed in thy dark cave, 

Is misery I cannot brave ; 

! spare the good, thou ruthless king, 

! come not here with icy sting ; 



LONELY HOLES. 35 

She's all the world can have for me, 

Beloved one I'll rest with thee, 

Then take me too, Fll sleep beside 

Mine own long lov'd, my gentle bride/' 
He stooped, to kiss her pallid lips, 
Was her pure soul in Death's eclipse ? 
With aching heart and burning head, 
He murmured, " now my flow'r is dead ; 
But like the ivy which still clings 
Around the withered tree, which brings 
New life and vigour to its growth, 
'Till death has over-mastered both, 
I'll cling to thee, no pow'r shall part 
The life-pulse of my wounded heart . 
Alas ! what madness ! do I rave, 
My darling 's dead — and who can save? 
Too wildly worshipping I knelt, 
Before a shrine that thus could melt, 
Thus vanish, crumble to decay. 
What art thou now ? dust, ashes, clay, 
But oh ! so beautiful e'en yet, 
Thou'rt like a star in shadows set, 
Or some crush'd flow'r whose fragrance rare 
Ascends like incense thro' the air. 
E'en as thy virtue sheds around 
This halo that thy brow hath crowned. 



36 LONELY HOURS. 

O ! crush nie, death, beneath thy power, 
Yet still I'll cling unto my flow'r 
And suck the poison of the vine 
Of anguish, anguish such as mine, 
Then from this barren soil, tear 
Ivy that clings but to despair \" 
Hush, hush, it is the midnight bell that tolls, 
And echo from each hill and valley rolls 
In solemn tone ; the watch-dog's angry bark » 
Is mingled with the sound: night's shades grow dark. 
And still the mourner weeps beside the dead, 
And pillows on her breast his weary head. 
Pale as a corse his livid face appears, 
And down his check descends a flood of tears ; 
Abandon'd in its woe, no hope is left, 
That faithful heart of every joy bereft, 
From bliss to agony thus rudely hurl'd, 
Without one thought upon a better world ; 
But fancy now grown tired of her sway, 
Has taken wing and swiftly fled away. 

Softly a sigh is breathed upon his ear, 
And falling on his hand he feels a tear ! 
The startled mourner looking up doth find 
Two loving arms round him softly twined, 
"While radiant eyes, in which pure pity shone, 
Were calmly turned to gently meet his own ! 



LONELY HOURS. 37 

He started — " God ! "'twas but a dream/' he cried, 
" And tliou dost live, and here art by my side ; 
My wife — my darling — oh ! could mortal less 
Prize the dear one that thus his love doth bless ! 
Now do I rise from out this black despair, 
From hell to heaven, for thou art living there. 
It was a dream — thou art not gone — no, no ; 
O God ! I thank thee that it is not so." [said, 

" Yes, 'twas a dream," the young wife, whisp'ring 
" And thou for me hast bitter tear-drops shed ; 
All, all a dream — when thou didst sing to me, 
A slumber gently gathered over thee, 
And I was calmly still in dread to break 
Thy spell-like musings. Oh ! I would not wake 
Thee to the sadness that thy heart did fill 
Ere thou didst sleep ; but come, the night is chill; 
Mark you how fair our little cottage looks ! 
These murmuring streams and gentle singing brooks 
Are like sweet fairies humming low their song — 
Have they not cheated us to tarry long ? 
But tho' this scene my fervent soul delights, 
To dearer joy our humble home invites. 
Then come, belov'd, I see thy pallid brow, 
Tho' silent, tells me thou art weary now. 
Come, dearest, then — nay, shake this gloom away, 
Else we shall linger here till break of day." 



38 LONELY HOURS. 



Spring blooms afresh and each flow'r lifts an eye, 
In smiling gladness, to the cloudless sky : 
And rosy leaves, in newly-budding bliss, 
Their ripe lips turn to evening's dewy kiss ; 
And happy heart-throbs from the blossom comes, 
While gaily round and round the wild bee hums, 
Iu wanton playfulness, near tree and flower, 
Uncertain which bright bud to make his bow'r. 
Then, dipp'd in blushes, in glides summer morn, 
Pure as a sinless babe to sorrow born, 
And grew apace till on June's threshold stood, 
Peeping beneath a coy and half-drawn hood, 
Which June would strip her of, and then disclose 
The full-blown beauty of each blushing rose. 
But in half girlhood now, is joyous May, 
On whose young brow are glittering jewels gay, 
While Nature, her fond handmaid, with delight, 
Decks in her purest sheen her mistress bright, 
And smiles to mark how very fair she seems, 
Whose sparkling face with rarest beauty beams — 
Whose glowing form shows what a lavish hand 
Hath shower'd beauties over sea and land, 
And sent her sweet ambassadress to tell 
Earth's children that their Maker loves them weD . 



LONELY HOLES. '3^ 

O ! messenger of heaven, dear gentle May, 
Thy sacred mission knows no long delay — 
For as weak man inhales thy fragrant sigh, 
He feels his thoughts to God are drawing nigh. 
Full of thanksgiving for his glorious gifts, 
An inspiration new his spirit lifts. 
Oh ! sweetest month of all the circling year, 
Unto the poet and to sages dear, 
Well can'st thou lift man's straying thoughts above, 
Sweet smiling May — young child of summer's love ! 
Hark ! now the cuckoo sounds his playful notes, 
And down the valley echo softly floats ; 
The nightingale melodiously doth sing, 
The robin pauses half-way on his wing, 
Wondering from whence the shVry sound arose, 
From earth to heaven the strain so sweetly flows, 
To mingle with the air such liquid strains, 
While the proud bird such homage ne'er disdains, 
But conscious stands amid the listfning throng 
Of feathered minstrels, queen of lovely song ; 
And smiles to see e'en mortals pausing, still 
Entranced beneath the power of her will; 
And nature smiles to hear the concert sweet, 
And earth is glad the golden year to greet. 
Upon a radiant morn, as fresh and fair 
As the new flow'rs or balmy summer air, 



40 LONELY HOURS. 

Our young wife passes from her cottage home 
Amid the radiant summer store to roam, 
Stopping at times to cull some blossoms rare, 
Bright as a butterfly, but far more fair. 
Onward she moves until she meets the stile 
Where last year's moonlight did to dreams beguile 
Him who so grieved to lose his gentle bride, 
Her world, her all, her ev'ry hope and pride ! 
Then did she sink upon that seat of old, 
And rapturous thoughts within her bosom roll'd, 
'Till 'midst dark violets her fair head she laid. 
And with a grateful heart she gently prayed — 
Prayed, thanking God that hope, and love, and life, 
Breathed on her brow, and shelter 'd her from strife; 
Then, while bright tear-drops sparkled on her cheek, 
Like dew upon a lily pure and meek, 
She started up, her husband's form descrying 
Upon a verdant bank, and onward flying 
Swift as a fawn, she snatches, in wild glee, 
A cherub infant from her husband's knee ; 
While the old nurse, who clasps her hands in pride, 
Turns from the sight a happy tear to hide, 
Blessing the pair so full of peace and joy, 
Crowning with blossoms their wee baby boy, 
Who crows and clutches at the tiny wreathes, 
While glowing words the tender mother breathes ; 



LONELY HOURS. 41 

She, like a full blown rose, all pure and bright, 
And he, the sun, the source of life and light. 

Oh ! the true rapture of such honest love, 

A foretaste thou of sweetest bliss above ; 

Thy throb can purify the coarsest heart, 

And swiftly rend the ties of vice apart ; 

Can make grief kiss the hard tho' chastening rod, 

And plant within the soul strong faith in God. 
Who that has felt such happiness as this, 
The home-made pleasures of domestic bliss, 
Where love and peace and hope united reign, 
With one true heart to share our joy or pain ; 
One treasure that from torturing doubt is free, 
Keeping its lustre and its rays for thee ; 
One gentle heart round which love's links are twin'd, 
While in that temple thou art all enshrin'd, 
As some divinity for good or ill, 
Which, if removed, would either crush or kill — 
Who can believe that death's eternal spell 
Shall bind for ever souls that loved so well ? 
Was not our life a fever of desire ? 
Was not our life a dream of something higher ? 

Oh ! may reality be all we deem, 

And gloomy sadness ever prove — " a dream." — 



42 LONELY HOURS. 



CHAEITY. 

Pure Charity, thou soother of each fear, 

Thou bring'st new life unto the withered heart, 

And kindly wip'st away griefs blighting tear, 
And tak'st from out the wound the festering dart. 

Like dew on flow'rs thy tears on mortals pour, 
While Mercy stands with smiling lips to see 

Her meek-eyed sister tending on the poor, 
Thou blessed, holy thing — sweet Charity ! 

'Tis noblest aims that noblest minds can move, 
And kindness gently brings back souls to God ; 

While Charity our thoughts and acts approve, 
We're treading o'er the path our Saviour trod. 

'Tis kind, 'tis good to lend a willing hand 
To help a fallen brother in his need — 

To chide him not, though guilt his brow should brand; 
But say he trusted to a " broken reed." 

'Tis good, 'tis well to know the rich and high 
Could leave their homes of comfort and of state, 

To seek an humble cabin far or nigh, 

And by the sickly couch with balm to wait. 



LONELY HOURS. 43 

In gilded halls are mirth, and joy, and song, 
And lightest pinions speed the time away, 

Where dance and music bear the feet along, 
'Till smiling wakes the rosy god of day ; 

Where plenty bursts luxuriant to the view, 
And opes her golden portals to the great ; 

Where hang fair canopies of azure hue, 
With silver starr'd, and pageantic state. 

There waxen floors with velvet couches strewn, 
And mirrors bright reflect each glowing face, 

And fruit and flowers blend in sweet perfume, 
And answering looks the eye of love can trace ; 

Cool sylvan grottoes, where the dancers stray, 
To bathe their heated brows, and calmly breathe, 

Where sparkling perfumed fountains sweetly play 
And drench the mossy minerals beneath. 

Myriads of tiny lamps, some wrought of gold, 
Pure orange branches gaily bear, which soar, 

In every tint and shade, whose beams enfold, 
In radiant rainbows to the marble floor ; 

Tables which groan beneath the choicest vines, 
With red fruit bursting from its dewy leaves. 

In crystal goblets sparkle rarest wines, 

Near holly-berries twined in glowing wreaths ; 



44 LONELY HOURS. 

The Christmas-tree is bright with blazing gems. 
And bending low beneath its precious gifts ; 

No cold philosophy its pomp condemns, 
Nor sneeringly the veil of envy lifts ; 

Proud crests emblazoned on a silv'ry cloth, 
And ancient armour shine so grimly bright, 

And waving banners of ancestral worth, 

Placed proudly there by some ancestral knight ; 

Where beauty, wit, and jewels flash and gleam, 
And rarest robes of splendour rustle round, 

All gay and gorgeous as some fairy dream, 
Oh ! in this hall can Charity be found ? 

If here, with Mercy will she kindly turn 
Unto another scene, oh ! different far ? 

A desert where no lamp of hope doth burn — 
A sky so dark there cannot gleam a star : 



See in a cellar damp, and cold, and dark, 
A woman shivering on a bit of straw, 

No bed, no blankets, not of fire a spark, 
Nor food, nor raiment — all is cold and raw ; 

Wet mould and rust upon the clayey floor, 

And bleak winds rattle 'gainst the broken pane. 

With casement smashed behind the crazy door, 
Where rags are stuff' d to keep out snow and rain ; 



LOXELY HOUES. 45 

Poor raiment this cold night — one scanty robe, 
Whose tatters shut not out the chilling air, 

A lancet keen her bleeding heart doth probe, 
And poverty's sharp thorns her spirits tear. 

No chair, no table, e'en a " creepy stool/' 
No flickering rush-light sheds a sickly ray — 

Nor even one — one little crumb of fuel — 
She weeps, and waits until the dawn of day. 

The tears seem frozen on her sunken cheek, 
Her teeth are chatt'ring in the bitter night ; 

Her form is wasted, and her limbs are weak ; 
Her eyes are blazing with a frenzied light. 

A little child is crouching at her feet, 

With one low wailing cry, " Oh ! mother, bread/' 
That pleading look, oh, God ! how can she meet ? 

It rends the heart, to other feelings dead. 

Aught else she bore — gaunt hunger, cold, and grief, 
But this low cry — this, this she cannot bear ; 

Grim death or madness, aught would be relief, 
She has no food to give — oh, black despair ! 

No food to give this helpless starving child — 
This fragile tie which bound her unto life ; 

This babe, her only one, 'tis woe too wild, 

The struggle's o'er, she sinks beneath the strife. 



46 LONELY HOURS. 

Her eyes now burn with suicidal flame, 

She thinks 'twere better far that they were dead, 

Than answer with a fear she cannot name, 

" I have no food, my child — no bread — no bread." 

Again, that thought of withering crime so dark; 

She looks around, and all is still and drear ; 
She shivers at a deed so foul ; but, hark ! 

It is, it is a footstep drawing near. 

Bright sunshine bursts upon the dismal scene, 
And in this loathsome cellar takes its rest ; 

Now grief, and pain, and poverty may lean 
Their weary heads on Charity's sweet breast. 

Look up, poor mother, see, thy child doth live — 
Think not life's spark so soon from her hath fled, 

And smile again, for thou hast food to give — 

Look, poor one, look, and see 'tis bread, 'tis bread ! 

Oh ! sweet reward, to save a sinking soul. 
And bear it safely on life's fertile shore, 

And help to trace on the eternal scroll, 

Thou art forgiven — " Go and sin no more." 

With Charity, Faith's dew on mortals fall, 
While Mercy stands with smiling lip to see 

Her meek-eyed sister pouring peace on all, 
Thou blessed, holy thing — sweet Charity ! 



LONELY HOURS. 47 



A GLIMPSE OF HOME. 

How pleasant 'tis to know that time 
Can leave the heart unsear'd and true, 

When loving ties of youthful days 
Through weary absence we renew. 

Oh ! sweet such friendship ; who can say 

'Tis but an idle, empty name ? 
All those I lov'd long, long ago, 

Tho' years have passed, I find the same. 

Another glimpse of home I've got, 
And met each face I lov'd so well : 

Hand clasping hand, the silent look, 
That all the inmost soul can tell. 

Hearts warm and kind and brimming o'er 
With sweet affection, love and truth ; 

Old friends and schoolmates met again, 
As in the days of early youth. 

And one — a sweet dark girl — to whom 
My ev'ry thought and hope were known, 

As with one heart, one soul, one mind, 
Almost from childhood we had grown. 



48 LONELY HOLES. 

With hands enlock'd, we wandered o'er 
The haunts of many a bygone year ; 

Where oft' we sang, or talked, or laughed, 
Or sooth' d away each other's fear. 

The green, green hills, the waterfall, 
With voices mingling in its sound, 

Where oft' in moonlight's hour we gazed 
Upon the lovely prospect round. 

The rippling waters rose and fell, 
In livery, pure, and graceful glee ; 

Then danced along its lovely course, 
In shVry brightness to the lee. 

And watching then each sparkling wave, 

In silent awe admiring still, 
We wondered what the tide of fate 

Our future's space had yet to fill. 

Alas ! alas ! that time hath fled, 

And now what mem'ries spring to mind 

Of other scenes and other joys, 
That longer yet are left behind. 

When weaving once a garland sweet, 
To place upon my mother's brow, 

I cull'd the rarest flow'rs that grew, 
And culling, broke full many a bough ; 



LONELY HOURS. 49 

But, heeding nothing, for the time, 

To gratify affection's sway, 
Tho' many a tiny bud I crushed, 

And 'neath my feet all trampled lay. 

I ran to clasp it on her brow, 

A thorn forgotten pierc'd my hand ; 

In angry scorn I cast it by — 
It fell upon the glist'ning sand : 

That wreath I took such pains to make 

Lay all forgotten, dying there ; 
But kindly rain-drops fell and kept 

It once more blooming, fresh and fair. 

And, day by day, it blossom' d on, 
Tho' torn from out its native soil ; 

Like many a human flower it grew, 
A sweet, neglected, worldling's spoil. 

Still kept alive by sympathy, 

Whose pure, refreshing, healthful tone 

Comes like the music of the past, 
Reminding us of joys that's flown. 

Oh ! sympathy, love's sister, thou 
Hast endless, mighty power to shed 

A radiance o'er the mould'ring graves 
Of buried hopes that long are dead. 



50 LONELY HOURS. 

But folly, like that wreath, alas \ 
In wasteful idleness has birth ; 

With fate the same, forgotten soon, 
Sinks nameless to its mother earth. 

How oft' the sinful conscience spurns 
Remorseful thoughts that fain would dart 

In awful warning o'er the mind, 

To wake the guilty, slumbering heart ! 

And what we cull in pleasure's noon 
A thorn or poisoned fruits contain j 

While nought save memory's blighted ilow'rs 
As tokens of the past remain : 

Those thoughts, unbidden, rush to mind, 
Tor what will not our home recall ? 

It brings back childhood, love and pe;ice, 
To evening meal the welcome call, 

The bright fireside, the cheerful hearth, 
With merry song and laughing jest ; 

The sister and the brothers dear, 

The festive board and cherish'd guest ; 

A mother, gentle, loving, kind, 
Oh ! patient, ever faithful friend, 

Who, for our welfare, with a smile, 

An earnest prayer to heaven would send. 



LONELY HOURS. 51 

I know she often thought of one 

Who moulders in the churchyard now ; 

For e'en amid the lightest mirth, 

A cloud would shade her placid brow. 

Oh ! sacred scenes, belov'd and sweet, 
Why should I wish you back again ? 

Since dearest, purest, fondest ties 
Now bind me with a holy spell. 

With blest contentment smiling round, 
Where comfort, hope and peace, combine, 

More can we ask except a heart 

To share our joy, while joy doth shine ? 

Who has not felt a longing wish, 
When far away we sometimes roam, 

To meet again that blessed thing — ■ 
Another transient " glimpse of home V s 



52 LONELY HOTJKS, 



OUR ONE WEE GIRL. 

Ah ! thou art very beautiful, art very fair, my child ! 
With little graces all thine own, that round our hearts 

are twined. 
With lovely cheek and broad white brow, and eyes so 

deep and dark, 
In whose soft liquid gentleness the purest thoughts 

we mark : 
Thy ruby mouth so archly set, now dimpling in a smile, 
Then pouting prettily in grief but for a little while, 
Then laughing merrily again in rosy flush of joy — 
O there's not one thy happiness would for a world 
destroy. 
'Tis not because thou'rt beautiful, that love around 

thee chugs, 
Although the fairest of the fair, thou art of earthly 

things — 
But there's a nameless charm that breathes around 

thy little life, 
That all who see thee ever long to guard thee from 
each strife ; 



LONELY HOURS. 53 

Thou'rt wondrous sensitive and sweet, with thoughts 

beyond thy years, 
I often snatch thee to my breast and bathe thee in 

my tears ; 
Fve seen thy cheek in crimson dyed, and moisture 

in thine eye, 
At e'en a careless tone from those who could not 

pass thee by. 
I've seen thee shrink from mirth too loud, and 

cower beneath a look, 
And know the coarseness of the throng thoucould'st 

but badly brook ; 
And then I doubly longed to live., that thou should'st 

know my care, 
For if my heart's last throb could save, my gentle 

child Fd spare. 
How often for thy father's sake, I o'er my darling 

pray, 
For all the fairest things of earth, the soonest pass 

away. 
And to his soul, his noble soul, so very dear thou art, 

Whose aims, though sterner, yet from me were 
never held apart, 
That when a shade grows on thy brow, or pallor on 

thy cheek, 
I see his manliness and pride in very love grow 

weak. 



54 LONELY HOURS. 

And ah ! I fancy silently if thou wert only sent, 
To stray a little time on earth to show what beauty 

meant. 
And that if God should call thee back unto his 

home again, 
What mortal agony and grief would rack his breast 

and brain ! 
While I with breaking heart the while should won- 
der which could be 
The greater misery to bear — his woe, or loss of thee. 
Ah ! would thou wert not beautiful, that all could 

pass thee by, 
Nor mark the tint upon thy cheek, the lustre of thine 

eye, 
Nor tell me that the lilies fade, that winter' blast can 

sear, 
What once was bright, for then my breast is filled 

with anxious fear. 
For thou, my child, art like a bud, most rare to find 

on earth, 
And in the soil of Heaven I deem thy gentleness had 

birth. 
And oh! I fear the cold hard world will chill thy 

opening love, 
Ah ! then alas ! for us alas ! thou could'st but bloom 
above. 



LONELY HOURS. 55 

How strange thy power, how strange to think so 

young and frail a child, 
Hath melted many a hardened heart, and with thine 

arts begun" d, 
Those who from childhood's tiny charms could turn 

away in pride, 
Yet spellbound like, still pause to gaze and linger by 

thy side. 
Oh ! treasured idol, may thy life be ever thus as sweet, 
May never thorn along thy path, thy tender footsteps 

meet ! 
And may life's pilgrimage be smoothed by those who 

love thee best, 
Till thou in happiness canst feel with every comfort 

blest. 
And then thy parents fond shall say, that through the 

world's great space, 
However sorrow for a time can peaceful joy efface, 
They found for all their loving toil one pure and 

spotless pearl 
Reflecting lustre on their lives, in thee our one wee girl. 



56 LONELY HOLES. 

THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 

11 Rise, rise, fair moon, and let thy beams fall bright 
O'er this sweet earth with dazzling silver light ; 
Shine, twinkling stars, high in your heavenly throne, 
And lead the wanderer to his humble home ; 
Guide well his footsteps to his loving wife, 
And end the fever of her anxious strife. 
Oh ! God protect him, guard him o'er the sea, 
And bring him safely back once more to me. 

Well have I watched through all this lonely night — 
O ! come thou truant, bless my wearied sight. 
Alas ! what anguish in my soul doth burn — 
Be calm, wild throbbings, he will soon return. 
Why doth he tarry ? why this long delay ? 
The moon is gone, and now once more 'tis day — 
Yes, daylight breaks from out yon azure vault, 
And yet he comes not — oh ! not his the fault. 

Come here, my child, close to thy mother's breast, 
And there, sweet lamb, in quietude thou'lt rest ; 
Be still, poor heart, and let my cherub sleep — 
Rest, rest, loved babe, while lonely watch I keep. 
See twilight's mantle thrown o'er yon blue sky, 
And now in darkness e'en those grey tints die, 



LONELY HOURS. 5* 

And o'er my soul still comes an awful dread, 
As tho' " a small voice" murmured, he is dead. 
Oh ! come, my boy, we'll seek thy father well — 
Adieu, sweet home ! for ever fare thee well ! 
There's something whispers that I ne'er will come 
Back to this dear old house — my childhood's home." 

She left her sheltering roof, that young fair wife, 
Nor heeded she the elemental strife ; 
The night, too, fell — so lonely, dull and drear — 
Poor suffering wife ! her anguish knew no fear 
Save one indeed which tore her bleeding heart, 
That he was dead ! — this, like a poison' d dart, 
Her poor soul fester' d with a mighty pain. 
And gave hot fuel to her burning brain. 
The cold wind blew, the vivid Kghtning flash'd, 
Yet felt she nought, but onward madly dash'd. 
On, on she flew, impatient but to reach 
That proud ship anchor'd safely near the beach. 
The bark she sees, and crying with new hope, 
" 'Tis he, my. boy ; look, look on yonder rope ! 
Oh ! brave and noble stranger to all fear, 
Look on thy wife and give one welcome cheer ; 
Now, now he turns — oh ! heaven, it is not he — 
But look ! there yonder floating o'er the sea !" 
! 'tis a human form that seems to glide 
Upon the foaming billows' swelling tide. 



58 LONELY HOURS. 

Sink,, sink ; pale moon, and veil thy mournful light, 
Ere she can gaze upon that madd'ning sight ; 
Crash, thunders, crash, and let your wailings loud 
Weep o'er her husband in his watery shroud ; 
Hide, lightmng, hide — thy gleaming rays ne'er shed 
Such pale blue torches o'er the ghastly dead ! 
Stay, calmly stay, thou cruel envious wave, 
Her tears she'll add unto his ocean grave ! 

One moment and she gazed upon her child, 
Then with a shriek, loud, horrible, and wild, 
Fell on her husband's corse with looks so sad — 
Poor tortur'd brain, that sight hath turn'd thee mad ! 

Is this the form which fill'd her youthful breast 
With woman's love, more fervent than profess'd ? 
And those the hands which sooth'd so tenderly 
Her couch of sickness in adversity ? 
And those the eyes which sparkled bright with joy 
While happy sporting with his infant boy ? 
And those the lips which told of love sincere ? 
Alas ! what desolation now is here. [spurn, 

Those hands tight lock'd, her fond grasp seems to 
And mock the grief that he cannot return. 
Those glassy eyes, for ever fixed and still, 
No more with pride her constant heart shall fill, 



LONELY HOURS. 



59 



And those white lips, ah ! never more can speak — 
Unhappy wife ! thy brain indeed should break. 

Yet rise, oh ! rise, and eagerly around 
Search for thy babe — but he cannot be found. 
Poor child ! he crept from out her sheltering arm 
In childish innocence, nor thought it harm, 
To gather stones and shells upon the shore, 
And laugh in glee to hear the billows roar ; 
But soon he tired and lay him down to sleep — 
Poor babe ! he too was buried in the deep. 
Eest, cherub, rest, thy cradle still shall rock 
And lull thy slumbers — in the tempest's shock. 
Those sighing winds will hum thy cradle song 
And thou wilt sleep — death's sleep so still and long. 

Sad lonely wife ! thy madness is relief 
Since thou art all unconscious of thy grief ! 
With vacant look and smile she still sits there — 
Unknown is sorrow and unfelt despair — 
Her husband's head she's pillow'd on her breast, 
And moves not, fearing to disturb his rest. 
She looks like some pale flower, rudely torn 
From out its native soil, and left to mourn 
Companions, kindred all, and e'en the ray 
Of former hope, which left it to decay. 



60 LONELY fiOtUSi 

Alas ! great heaven ! it was a piteous sight— 

The faint wan moon in mercy hid her light — 

As there she stay'd with wearied broken heart 

Till slumber came — and then with tender art 

Her fond old father bore her to his home — 

But still that wife — that lunatic would roam 

To seek her husband and sweet infant dear, 

And, smiling, say, " Ah ! soon they will be here ! " 

Still might that fond old father vainly pray, 

For faithfully, despite of all, she'd stray 

To weep till dark beside that fatal spot — 

Her husband's bed, her infant's ocean cot ; 

Then gaily smile to mark her father's tears, 

And laugh to scorn his fond paternal fears ! 

With dim weak eyes she'd gaze along the sea [me. 

And murmur " "Watch — wait — they'll come back to 

Look o'er yon wave, that great red star doth burn 

To guide them home — I'll wait — they'll soon return! " 



LONELY HOURS. 61 

'IRELAND AS IT WAS/' AND "IRELAND 
AS IT IS." 

Reclining on a bank of green, 

With smiling lip and joyous brow, 

A farmer gazes on a scene, 

Which makes him doubly happy now. 

The day's work over, oh ! how sweet 

To see his toil repaid so well ; 
To rest upon a mossy seat, 

And listen to the vesper bell. 

To gaze on all around, and know 

That golden harvest all his own ; 
To lift his sunburnt hands and show 

The marks of honesty alone. 

To hear the ploughboy cheerily, 

Whose song is blending with the sound 

Of sheep-bells playing merrily, 
Among the daisied pastures round. 

To see his home, that cottage where ■ 
The rose and woodbine fragrance shed, 

While lovingly young branches fair, 
Along the new-thatched roof are led. 



:i LONELY HOURS. 

To sit beside the frugal board, 

Where wife and children prate and smile ; 
What miser could such treasure hoard — 

Could wealth from these his heart beguile ? 

His home's his palace richly blessed, 
Where wealth and industry have sway ; 

At night he seeks his peaceful rest, 
And goes to work at break of day. 

His bit of land he loves to till — 

To watch it well with hope and fear ; 

Each root that ev'ry space doth fill, 
To him is sacred, and how dear. 

Contented, free from envious thought, 
A light and jovial heart has he; 

Nor would he change his simple lot 
For all the wealth of earth or sea. 

Oh ! peaceful, plenty, happy time, 
Unknown were poverty and strife — 

Unsullied by the stain of crime, 

With which the future years were rife. 



LONELY HOURS. 6-3 

An old man seated on a plough, 

Which carelessly is thrown aside ; 
It lies deserted, broken, now, 

Though once his hope, and joy and pride. 

Along his withered cheek the tears 

Are trickling sadly, slowly down, 
Eecalling hopes which fled with years, 

And left him thus in age alone. 

The cottage thatched, now worn and sad, 
So neat and trim in days of yore — 

The voices which made earth so glad, 
He now can see or hear no more. 

He bids a last farewell to all 

Those scenes he loved long, long ago ; 

No wonder that his tears should fall, 
And that his limbs are weak and slow. 

The home where he was born and reared, 
Where children sprang up by his side — 

When hearts were strong by love endear'd, 
Where great grandsires had lived and died— - 

All, all are gone ; oh ! misery, 

Alone and weary must he roam, 
Far over land, and over sea, 

To seek in age a stranger's home ? 



64) LONELY HOUKS. 

Ah, what, alas ! hath brought this change ? 

His heart is simple, upright, still, 
His hand Avill cheerfully engage, 

All honest labour to fulfil — 

Hard times have come ; who could disdain 
To weep for home and fatherland ? 

Let us not bow in grief and shame, 
And say 'tis the oppressor's hand. 

' No ; — times are changed, but Heaven will 
In mercy stay the reddening flood ; 
Oh ! why must vengeance strike and chill, 
By crying for a brother's blood ? 

Oh ! Ireland, lov'd home of my soul, 
Good times will come again for thee ; 

God will erase guilt's withering scroll, 
And plenty smile in victory. 



LONELY HOL T ES. 65 

A MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

Within a churchyard calm and still, 

An old man tott'ring strays, 
Whose fond heart even yet can thrill 

With thoughts of former days. 
And resting on an ancient tomb, 

With hands crossed on his staff, 
He thinks upon his childhood's home, 

And hears his mother's laugh. 
Still nods his white head while he smiles, 

At those fresh dreams so gay, 
Of by-gone joy that yet beguiles 

The pilgrim on his way. 

'Tis strange, he says, thought travels back 

To childhood's distant years ; 
Yet memory treads not o'er the track 

Of later smiles and tears. 
Now, in the vista of the past, 

One rainbow still doth shed 
Its sweet and radiant beams that cast 

A halo o'er the dead. 
One star-gemm'd promise in that bow, 

Is set in dew-drops fair, 
And when to earth they calmly flow, 

'Tis in a mother's prayer. 

6 



LONELY HOLES. 

I mind me of a cradle soft, 

O'er which my mother smiled, 
While her loved voice would murmur oft — 

" Oh ! God protect my child/' 
I mind me how from infancy 

I grew a stripling bold, 
And parted her to woo the sea, 

With life's stern tale untold; 
And when the stormy waves rose high — 

When death stood grimly there — 
My heart grew strong — the wind's loud sigh 

Still breathed my mother's prayer. 

And I remember too, full well, 

Our homeward voyage bound, 
I saw again each mossy dell, 

Each well-known path I found. 
I raised the latch, but silent gloom 

Hung o'er my father's face ; 
I looked around the little room 

And saw her vacant place. 
Then crumbling from my heart I felt 

Hope's stepping stones decay ; 
The idol at whose shrine I knelt, 

All — all was turned to clay. 



LONELY HOURS. 67 

Again amid life's busy scene, 

Where pleasure sparkled bright, 
Temptation in its softest mien 

My young heart sought to blight. 
I raised the goblet to my lip, 

"With burning joy and wild, 
Yet always heard e'er I could sip — 

" Oh ! God protect my child." 
Ah ! mother, thou did'st ever rise 

'Twist me and every ill, 
Far from thy prayer all evil flies, 

My guardian angel still. 

Now I am resting on thy grave, 

A dear and hallowed spot, 
Where thoughts of thee before me wave, 

Thou guardian of my lot. 
Ah ! me, I'm very weary now, 

Yet calmly 'bide my time, 
And hope upon my wrinkled brow, 

Faith's crown in heaven will shine, 
Upon life's sky a rainbow yet, 

For all is glowing fair, 
Whose star-gemm'd promise cannot set, 

While lasts a mother's prayer. 



08 LONELY HOURS. 

THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 

Farewell, old year ! — at length thou'rt passed away, 

Thou wast full weary of thy ceaseless toil, 
And laid thy head most calmly down to rest, 

Upon the pillow of our native soil. 
What did'st thou say when breathing thy last sigh ? — 

What whisper to the happy new-born year, 
When on Time's threshold ye both trembling met, 

One passing forth, the other to appear ? 
O did'st thou tell that pure young babe, that sin 

Would soon contaminate his spotless brow — 
That cruel vice had broken thy old heart, 

And 'neath wild shame thy hoary locks did bow ? 

Welcome, new year ! — sweet smiling babe of time, 

May we, as each one takes thee to his heart, 
Vow in his soul that noble deeds and aims 

Shall shine upon Time's sands ere thou'lt depart. 
And when ennobled by the lines we trace 

Upon the opening scroll, oh ! may we feel, 
As day by day unfolds its lengthened page, 

A hope is brightening o'er us, fadeless, real — 
A hope that shall enable us to wish 

Much faster on our pilgrimage to roam, 
That when thy face is wrinkled o'er with age, 

We have drawn nearer to our heavily home. 



LONELY HOURS. by 

Farewell, old year ! — ah, thou did'st press on me 

The heaviest sorrow ever felt before : 
For in thy infancy one faithful heart, 

To which love clung with love, could beat no more, 
But died, when thou did'st draw thy first faint breath, 

And thy cold hand for me no balm did bring, 
For tho' resigned, my breast is mourning yet, 

"With all the poignancy of griefs first sting. 
But it is best that sever'd ties should burst 

These links of earth that were, perhaps, too dear, 
Altho' love's chords he bleeding freshly still, 

And the lone heart its own hot tears doth sear. 

Welcome, new year I — come gently now and kind, 

Sow in thy tracks sweet fiow'rs of hope and peace, 
That grateful hearts may gather and be glad, 

And from the thorns of sorrow gain release. 
Hail unto thee ! — let every soul believe 

Blessings may hide within the lap of Time, 
And fall, all radiant, at our wond'ring feet, 

With happiness around our hearts to twine. 
Then let us come from out our cold reserve, 

And greet the fair new year with thankful praise, 
Trusting that Hope shall gild the space unseen, 

And Faith illuminate the rugged ways. 



70 LONELY HOURS. 

LIFE'S PATHWAY. 

She stands surrounded by the throng 

Of village maidens young and bright, 
Who bear her laughingly along, 

The May-queen of a festive night ; 
Amid the fair, the fairest still, 

With eyes of gentle, softest blue, 
A child of nature which did fill 

Her heart and soul, and made them true. 

She stands before the altar now, 

All timid, blushing by his side, 
And trembling breathes the sacred vow 

Which makes her all his own, his bride. 
He bore her to his home, where love 

Made earth to her all good and fair ; 
His was the grateful task, to prove 

A shield to shelter her from care. 

She stands beside a tiny crib, 

And gazes on her cherub boy ; 
A holy smile plays on her lip, 

Her soft eyes brimming o'er with joy. 
Oh ! holy, sacred thing to see, 

A mother thus so young and mild; 
Her world (the best that here may be), 

Her husband and this little child. 



LONELY HOURS. 71 

^he stands beside the bed of death, 

Her pale hands clasped in speechless woe, 
A prayer for her was his last breath. 

And yet no tear for him can flow ; 
They turn back on her weary heart, 

All cold and hard, to freeze her soul ; 
>^uch chilling misery 'twas to part 

From him who could each throb control 

Again, beside the cradle now, 

A childless widow, sad and pale, 
She gazes on her infant's brow, 

With one dry sob — her heart's last waiL 
All shuddering from the crib she moves, 

And strangers lift the sacred clay ; 
One last, long look — the coffin's screwed — 

And he is borne away, away. 

She stands beside the double grave, 

A better, brighter, holier thing, 
And knows that God, our souls to save, 

From mortal dross our hearts doth wring ; 
And turning one soft smile to Heaven — 

A smile of thankful hope and love, 
She says the ruder ties are riven — 

More closely they are joined above. 



7£ LONELY HOTTBSr 

Oil ! could we learn from her to bear 

The ills of life, which soon are passed, 
We'd gladly welcome every care, 

And bend our heads to sorrow's blast, 
This life is like a stranger land, 

Tho' sweet, in pilgrimage we roam : 
Oh ! let us catch the outstretched hand 

Which leads to our eternal home. 



THE TINY GRAYE, 

Christmas is past — another year 

Hath from us died away, 
And one who was our treasure here, 

Is mouldering to decay. 
She was the idol of each heart, 

Bright sunshine to the eye, 
And seemed as though of heaven a part, 

A star come from the sky. 
She was the sweet light of our home, 

Our solace and our pride, 
But now another year hath come, 

And she's not by our side, 



LONELY HOLES. 73 

The grass blooms sadly on her grave, 

Lone is that narrow bed ; 
In tranquil sleep death's hand has laid 

Our darling's little head. 
Now o'er her cot the wind doth blow 

Its dirge of misery ; 
She heeds not how life's waters flow, 

She's borne across its sea. 
To find a shelter she has gone 

Within her Saviour's breast, 
So hail or snow may fall upon 

Her earthly bed of rest. 

I know not why that grave doth seem 

To haunt my brain to-day — 
Scarce three short summers had she seen 

Ere she had passed away. 
And death has broken dearer ties, 

At other graves I've wept 
With deeper anguish than could rise 

When first our darling slept. 
Yet in that churchyard drear and cold, 

Her grave alone I see, 
And deem within the sacred fold 

She watches, waits for me. 



74 LONELY HOURS. 

Of transient loveliness so mild, 

She looked an angel here, 
So gentle, good, and pure a child 

As of a higher sphere. 
But now, more beautiful and bright, 

More lovely, pure and fair, 
Arrayed in spotless robes of white, 

Which chosen spirits wear ; 
She had a sweet, though early doom — 

God lent her — never gave — 
And fleeting flowers like her still bloom 

Upon that tiny grave. 



THERE'S SUNSHINE 'NEATH THE CLOUD. 

Trust on — oh, let each youthful heart 

Cast every doubt away : 
Remember, from the darkest night 

May dawn the brightest day. 
I know, alas ! that many a soul 

By sorrow's weight is bowed ; 
But rest upon the staff of faith, 

There's sunshine 'neath the cloud. 



LONELY HOURS. 75 

Hope on — 'tis Heaven's hand that gives 

The rod of chastisement, 
And tho' it pains or smarts a while, 

Yet for our good 'tis sent. 
The wounded heart may almost die, 

With anguish for a shroud, 
But oh ! again new life will come, 

There's sunshine 'neath the cloud. 

Trust on — tho' faint may be hope's ray, 

'Mid present grief so dark, 
How dazzling bright a fire can glow, 

Born of one little spark ! 
Then bless the purifying rod, 

Beneath whose stroke we've bowed, 
And let us say to those who weep, 

There's sunshine 'neath the cloud. 



76 LONELY HOUfiS. 

THE FOREST WILD. 

In a forest lonely tiny children stray, 
Laughing, sporting ever, through the fleeting day, 
Gath'ring nuts and flowers, hoarding up the spoil, 
As bright trophies showing for their lightsome toil ; 
Gazing in the brooklets, decking lovely brows, 
Breaking rarest blossoms from the bending boughs ; 
Crowning little May-queens, gaily jesting on, 
Pause dismayM on marking day so nearly gone ; 
Sees the twilight thickening with regretful sigh, 
Night's grey shadows deepening o'er the azure sky : 
Wondering how the time went — ah, so short it seemed: 
Where are now the pleasures that before had gleamed ? 
Turn to fear and trembling, for night grew apace, 
As their looks were peering through the forest space ; 
Trodden paths then finding, fann'd with balmy air, 
Which to take theyknewnot,eachlook''d sweet and fair: 
But for homeward seeking, so night's shadow grew, 
Pausing, thinking, turning, fresh paths met their view ; 
Bright gems o'er themsparkling,flow'rets all fullblown, 
Amber buds in beauty opening there alone ; 
Crystal streamlets rushing, music low and sweet, 
Perfum'd fountains oozing, near a mossy seat ; 
Fairy bow'r of pleasure, promising delight, 
Fancy weaving garlands through the dreamy night : 



LONELY HOURS. 77 

Bower of bliss inviting, with soft music's swell, 
Murmurings of brooklets singing in that dell ; 
Yet one child full weary, longing for its home, 
Heeded not that bower — heard not music's tone ; 
For in distance gleaming shone one little spark, 
And he hailed the signal in that forest dark. 
Others sought the bower, turned from him aside, 
Smiling at the folly of such treacherous guide ; 
Still he trusted ever to that light before, 
And was soon rewarded by a cottage door. 
Hearty was his welcome, joyous was the cheer, 
No more weary wanderings, no more grief or fear : 
He has found his homestead, full of joy and love, 
Faith's bright star has led him to the home above. 

Mortals in the forest, culling rarest flow'rs, 
Think not poisonous reptiles hide in pleasure's bow'rs: 
Buds of sweet temptation, opening leaf by leaf, 
Leading ever onward, end at last in grief. 
Then heart-sick and weary, when too late would fly, 
But night's sable mantle covers earth and sky. 
Haste, the day is waning, eve is coming fast ; 
Hail the mighty signal ere the time be past, 
Lest in maze still doubting, life will on us close, 
And a dark hereafter Death's cold hand disclose. 



78 LONELY HO U ItS. 

Are we not like children, travelling day by day, 
At light pleasures grasping, from God's home astray, 
Basking in the sunshine, fleeing from the gloom, 
Never dreaming midnight follows after noon ? 

May Faith's star be shining, ne'er in doubt to set, 
Ever beckoning onward, beaming sweetly yet; 
Guiding thro' the wide world, till we meekly stand 
Happy at the portals of the heav'nly land, 
Knowing on our passport our Eedeemer smiled, 
Peeling 'twas He led us through the forest wild. 



SUMMEE. 

Oh ! weave me a garland of flow 'rets rare, 
To clasp on the brow of this maiden so fair, 
Of woodbine and violets, and jess'mine and rose, 
But mark that each cup shall a dew-drop enclose, 
Like diamonds to sparkle and glisten among 
The leaves of the myrtle most tender and young, 
To stream down the locks of this light sunny thing, 
Around her fair bosom to lovingly cling, 
To shine on each feature so radiantly bright, 
That she every eye with her charms may delight. 



LONELY HOURS. 79 

Bespangled her mantle, all beauteous and new, 
That she every mortal from sorrow may woo, 
And gladden the hearts of the good and the kind, 
'Round whom her soft beauties for ever are twined ; 
To call to the lips that were mourning a while, 
Again their old freshness and joy in a smile ; 
To bring to the eye that has shed many tears 
Reflections the dearest of sweet bye-gone years ; 
To shed o'er the hearts of the old and the sad 
A feeling of thankfulness, joyous and glad ; 
To bring to us all what is brightest and best, 
Gay gleanings of Summer to dwell in each breast. 



A PILGRIM'S PRAYER. 

Take me, Father, gently take me 

Lay me calmly on Thy breast ; 
List', oh ! 'tis a pilgrim weary. 

Praying for eternal rest. 
I have wandered sad and lonely 

Through this toilsome vale of tears ; 
From the world I turn disheartened, 

Weary of those gloomy years. 



LONELY HOURS. 

All of Earth seems cold, insipid, 

Tho' 'tis brightened o'er with love ; 
Soon I found the gilding tarnish, 

Nothing true but what's above. 
Hearts will change and friends forsake us, 

Others pass from Earth away — 
Wreaths of hope once twined around us, 

Fading, fading, day by day. 

Show the path, my Father, show me, 

Leading to thy land on high ; 
Tho' overspread with thorns of anguish, 

As they probe, thouTt hear my cry. 
Through the darkest valley lead me, 

Faith sheds light where e'er we roam ; 
Tho' the way be lone and rugged, 

It will lead me to Thine home. 

Teach, O God, in mercy teach me 

How to bear my burthen now ; 
Grief upon my heart is pressing — 

'Neath it? woful weight I bow. 
Let me, Father, to Thee bear it, 

Lay it humbly at Thy feet ; 
Pour upon my wounded spirit 

Balm of Thy forgiveness sweet. 



LONELY HOURS. 81 

Stretch thy hand, Father, lead us, 

Guide us safely to the end, 
And on paths which we have traversed 

Mercy's dewdrops will descend. 
Others treading through that valley, 

Gazing on those dewdrops down, 
Will take up in faith to set them, 

Diamonds for the heavenly crown. 

Help us, then, O Father, help us, 

Bring us past life's awful turn ; 
When the road is clear before us, 

Contrite tears thou wilt not spurn. 
For repentance wings will waft us, 

Trusting to a Saviour's care; 
Listen, then, O King Eternal, 

To a weary pilgrim's prayer. 



82 LONELY HOUES. 

SWEET EILY MY STAR. 
Oh ! Eily, my love, when the moonlight is silvering 

Each valley and dell, and in night's azure cot 
Young flow'rs close their eyes, and the soft dew is 
sprinkling 

Fair diamonds and pearls on this dear hallow'd spot; 
In rapture I gaze on one star that is gleaming, 

Though shadows most sombre flit over his face, 
And think that these dewdrops are tears he is weeping, 

Which fall like bright gems on this old try sting place. 
Oh ! Eily, fair nature looks sad now, my darling, 

In missing thy smiles and thy sweet joyous tone — 
ijook up, drooping lily, and bloom on in freshness, 

'Neath love's radiant sunshine, my Eily, mine own ! 

Sweet Eily, my star, 'tis for thee I am living, 

And hope softly whispers thou'lt live too for me ; 
If thy life soon should fade, like a cloud in its darkness, 

I'd gloom all round in my sorrow for thee. 
Like ivy we'll cling to each other, thus twining 

The tendrils of love round each fond faithful heart ; 
Thy destiny's mine, for true hope, joy and gladness, 

AH — all that is blissful, my dearest thou art. 
Those doubts cast away, let us sail on together, 

Thro'life's changeful tide, andshould grief cometomar 
Our happiness, love, I shall kiss off thy teardrops, 

Oh! Eily mavourneen, sweet Eily my star. 



LONELY HOURS. 83 

LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Little children, blithe and gay, 
How I love to uatch you play, 
Romping, shouting, all the day, 

Breaking heads and noses, all, 

With a blow, upset, or fall. 
Running, crying, then, away, 
To mamma to say their say : 
" Kiss the wounded spot, I pray." 

Jumping up on sofas, chairs, 
Breaking mother's nicest wares, 
Richest silks our darling tears ; 

Oh, no matter what they cost, 

All their value's on them lost, 
Not a pin young mischief cares, 
Which one weeps, or which one swears, 
At the awful things he dares. 

Now he breaks a toy, to see 

Put together can it be ; 

Then, alas ! what misery — 
He can't mend it up again — 
Oh ! 'twould puzzle bigger men i 

Roaring, then, right merrily. 

Toy forgets in new-born glee, 

Cares that like his pleasures flee. 



84 LONELY HOUHS. 

See that coaxing, blue-eyed child, 
Breaking brooch, yet looking mild, 
In my face she brightly smiled ; 

Who, oh f patience, could withstand 
. Dotty's wasteful little hand ? 
'Tis enough to set one wild, 
Yet to laughter Fm beguiled, 
By this happy, thoughtless child. 

Laugh on, children, laugh away, 
Who would curb your harmless play ? 
Clouds will dim the sun's bright ray ; 
All too soon life's sadness comes, 
Laugh on, then, ye thoughtless ones ;, 
Oh ! 'twill not be always May, 
Winter comes with frosty day ; 
Laugh then, children, laugh away. 



>1A)NELT HOURS. 8d 



THE FIRST GKEY HAIE. 



While gazing on this silver thread, 

The first I jet have seen, 
Sad memory springs from ont the past 

Of joys that once have been. 
In fancy I'm again a child, 

Beside my mother's knee, 
Who stands with smiling brow and lip 

My artless play to see. 

The first grey hair, ah ! changed am I, 

Time has come swiftly on — 
Those halcyon hours of joy and youth 

Are gone, for ever gone. 
Oh I can I think this thread has come 

In honour o'er my brow, 
Can I look back on well spent years 

And say 'tis welcome now ? 



86 LONELY HOTJES. 

The first grey hair — a token thou 

That life too soon is past, — 
That all things earthly, fair and bright, 

But one short span shall last ! 
I'm left alone, and lonely 'tis 

To mourn o'er loved ones dead — 
Hearts changed — ties broken — how I grieve 

While gazing on this thread. 

first grey hair, what time I've lost, 

That now I'd fain recall ! 
A witness of regret is here, 

These tears that silent fall. 
How blest are those whose faith hath made 

Of life one sunny page ; 
They read the past, and hopeful greet 

The happy dawn of age. 

The first grey hair — oh ! sacred thing,, 

A warning thou'rt to me ; 
Death — death is coming — strive to gain 

That great eternity — 
Oh ! mem'ry — thoughts of love and joy — 

Hopes blighted, withered, fled, 
Spring from the past, while gazing on 

This tiny silver thread, 



LONELY HOURS. 87 

THE SUNLIGHT OF MY SOUL. 

If e'er again thou nearest 

This pensive melody. 
Oh ! think of him then, dearest, 

Who sings it now for thee. 
Ah 1 wilt thou then remember 

One heart doth round thee twine, 
And wilt thou e'er surrender 
A love so fondly thine ? 

Oh ! think, oh ! think, my dearest, 

However time may roll, 
Thou art 'mid scenes the drearest. 
The sunlight of my soul. 

If e'er again thou hearest 

This little simple lay, 
Let it recall, then, dearest, 

Bright hopes now passed away. 
We'll meet in change and sorrow, 

In coldness and in fears, 
When broken hearts will borrow 
Relief from deep-felt tears. 

But oh ! remember, dearest, 

However time may roll, 
Thou'lt be 'mid scenes the drearest, 
The sunlight of my soul. 



55 LONELY HOURS. 

But if, as then thou nearest, 

This song should give thee pairr, 
Eorget him then, my dearest, 

Who sings its mournful strain.. 
One light alone is beaming, 

For me its ray will last, 
O'er thee 'tis sometimes gleaming — 
The brightness of the past. 

Wilt thou forget then, dearest, 

However time may roll, 
Thou'lt be 'mid scenes the drearest,. 
The sunlight of my soul,. 



THE INFLUENCE OE LOVE. 

Dear little birds, I ne'er have heard 

Your song so merry as to-day ; 
I ne'er before have seen ye trip 

So blithe and happy at your play. 
The fields look greener, and sweet buds 

Give birth to infant blossoms now ; 
A heav'nly crown of beauty rare 

Is brightly clasp' d on nature's brow. 



LONELY HOURS. 89 

The azure of yon spotless sky 

To-day more lovely doth appear; 
The sun in glorious strength doth reign, 

No sullen cloud dare shed a tear. 
Night stealeth on, and softly spreads 

A greyish mantle o'er that blue ; 
The moon her purest silver teems, 

And earth's parched lips now kiss the dew. 

Bright little stream, whose shallow tide 

Reflects the lustre of each star/ 
I ne'er before have marked thy face 

DecFd with such dimples near and far. 
Oh, heaVnly nature ! — lovely queen 

Of majesty sublime thou art j 
My soul more loyal is to thee, 

Since love possessed and ruled my heart. 

Earth, air, and sky — all, everything 

Seems bursting with one swell of joy ; 
Love paints in colours all so bright, 

That life seems gold without alloy. 
Oh, mystic power ! great sages old, 

And poets, fame for thee resigned ; 
Beneath thy hand this garden earth 

Doth seem to paradise refined. 



90 LONELY HOTJUS. 

FAREWELL TO THEE, DEAREST. 

Farewell to thee, clearest, a long, last farewell, 

Forget not the friend thou may'st never see more, 
Who'll cherish thine image in memory's cell, 

The fondest, the brightest, till life's throb is o'er. 
I knew thee, I loved thee — to part from thee now 

With sorrow's cold tear-drops my sad heart doth fill, 
But truth's purest impress is deep on thy brow, 

And hope fondly whispers thouTt think of me still. 

Farewell to thee, dearest — with thee I have passed 

Some sweet days and happy, which come not again ; 
That sun seems the brightest whose rays do not last, 

And darkest the clouds on our souls which remain. 
All fleeting and glad were the joys we have known, 

Too soon have they faded away from each heart ; 
But hope's magic mantle around us was thrown, 

By faith in that moment when thou didst depart. 

Farewell to thee, dearest — I never shall find 

Another like thee in this world's busy throng ; 
We felt with one heart, and we thought with one mind, 

And cull'd the same sweets on life's pathway along. 
Adieu then to friendship, for sacred the place 

Where thine image dwelt in my heart still shall be ; 
'Mid few radiant flowers in memory's space, 

The purest, the freshest are living for thee. 



LONELY HOURS. 91 

Farewell to thee, dearest — to regions above 

Thy name shall be wafted in holiest prayer, 
And reaching the throne of Omnipotent love, 

Thy lot "will be sheltered from sorrow and care. 
I know that the rays of thy friendship will shine, 

Like streams of bright light in a once gloomy dell, 
Illumining all of the faithful heart's' shrine, 

That breathes to its one friend this long, last farewell. 



THE SADDEST THING. 

Of all sad things, it is most sad to see 
Young hearts grow old beneath their misery — 
To know one hour can write an endless page 
Of anguish great, where minutes seem an age 
Of torture deep ; oh ! pause, ye triflers all, 
Ere yet you turn young heart's pure blood to { 

'Tis sad to mark the old, e'en rich or poor, 
Seeking so long that which doth all allure — 
Content, the fickle bird which always flies 
So far beyond our reach, tho' hope still tries 
To catch it as most near ; oh ! who can say, 
" I'm satisfied," and happy go my way ? 



92 LONELY HOUES. 

But sadder still to see the glist'ning tear 
Fall from the eye of childhood — trembling fear 
Intruding where no thought save joy should dwell — ■ 
Where, free from murky spots, the heart's young well 
Should flow with crystal drops of love, and spring 
From sources of sweet peace, whose light should fling 
A glory o'er that life stream, that should keep 
Weak nature nurtured, striking firm and deep 
The root of faith, that nought of after life 
Might tear it up, amid temptation's strife. 



J Tis sad to mark a love, pure and refined, 

Mourn o'er the idol that was once enshrined 

Within the sacred temple of the soul, 

Now a sad ruin, over which still roll 

The deepest waves of grief, whose strength shall ne'er 

Be overmastered in the heart's despair; 

To mark the happy throb that once could fill 

The soul with joy, keen sorrow turning chill ; 

To see each hope grow fainter day by day, 

Then fade in darkness one by one away ; 

Feelings that once expanded warm and kind 

Shrink back again, because they could not find 

Their kindred in a world so cold and strange, 

In mem'ry's paths left them alone to range, 



LONELY HOUKS. 95 

Till pausing at some sweet and fertile spot, 
They wondering say, "Can this, too, be forgot?" 
Poor trodden heart-flow'rs, once all bright that grew, 
Doomed thus to wither, thirsting still for dew. 

Oh ! fatal moment, when the thoughtless heart, 
Untaught by falsehood or by cunning art, 
Turns from the centre of the soul above, 
To the false worship of an earthly love. 

Aye, fatal when another's hand may hold 
Each fibre of thine heart, with pow'r to fold 
Edged tortures round them ; oh ! how base must be 
The soul that could contrive such treachery. 

Oh ! pause, nor drag so at the strings of life, 
Lest they should snap beneath the constant strife, 
Then weak and bleeding, all neglected lie, 
Left quite alone, poor broken heart, to die. 

What, then, the boasted power, what the fame 
Of crushing love, but known to most by name ? 
Or dost thou know that pride in woman's heart 
Asserts her noblest instincts ; she would part 
Each throb, her soul's best life blood, feel despair, 
Or deepest pain and anguish — but to bear 



94 LONELY HOUES. 

The thought of love rejected, pride "would burn 
In furnace mad, such littleness to spurn. 

Oh I guilty triflers, why mark out a doom 
So lone and cheerless — summer fades too soon ; 
You need not tear the petals from the rose, 
Nor crush the opening bud before it blows ; 
Nor trample on the lily's graceful head, 
For winter comes, and finds them withered, dead. 
Yes, 'tis most sad, of all sad things, to see 
Young hearts grow old beneath their misery. 



VIOLETS. 

Clustering on the mossy banks, 

Hiding near the rippling streams, 
Nodding little fairy heads, 

As rare odour from them teems ; 
Whispering with then- fragrant breath, 

From young morning until noon, 
With their leaflet lips so soft — 

Golden summer's coming soon. 



LONELY HOURS. £5 

Violets, early violets all. 

Let me twine thee into wreathes, 
Each young velvet petal rare 

Of my childhood sweetly breathes, 
How I culFd those gentle flowers, 

When for school or homeward bound ; 
Once a little May Queen, I, 

With those dewy buds was crowned. 

Violets, tell me where are they 

Who engrossed my youthful mind — 
Little lips that pressed mine own, 

Tiny arms that •'round me twined ? 
Changed are some and others dead, 

Sleeping near this lonely dell- ; 
Others roaming now afar, 

Breathed to me a fond farewell. 

Violets, some may love your bloom, 

Others love your odour sweet, 
But fond mem'ry's sacred throb 

Glads my heart with you to meet ; 
Live then like those friends of yore, 

In immortal beauty fair, 
Who in vales of bliss above, 

Gathered heavenly violets there. 



'6 LONELY HOTTRS. 

LINES ON HEARING A LADY CALLED A 

COQUETTE. 

They tell me thou art light and gay, 

And that no worldly ill is thine, 
That lips where smiles can ever play. 

And eyes where joy doth always shine, 
Could have no care to dim hope's light, 
That thou art thoughtless, cold and bright. 
They say that thou could'st not he true, 

Because thy words are warm to all — 
But like yon spotless sky of blue, 

Whose light on each alike doth fall, 
So are the feelings of thy breast, 
Where kindliness doth ever rest. 
Ah ! how they wrong thy gentle heart, 

Where truth and virtue ever dwell ; 
Each throb of honour is a part, 

Its depth refinement's purest well, 
Thy soul which shrinkest e'en in thought, 
From all that is with coarseness fraught. 
Then still be happy, lovely maid, 

Nor let a cloud obscure thy bliss ; 
Heed not, tho' envy should upbraid, 

But like sweet moonlight's holy kiss. 
On yonder cold, ungrateful stream, 
Still let thy smiles around us beam. 






LONELY HOURS. 97 



THE WELL OF SYCHAK. 

Toil-worn and sad, a traveller rests 

Beside a well, all soiled and jaded ; 
His head upon his hand is pressed, 

The lustre from his eye is faded ; 
The dust and moisture on his brow, 

The sandals loose, and aspect weary, 
The care meath which he seems to how, 

Bespeak a journey long and dreary. 



With pitcher from the mountain side, 

A woman comes to draw some water ; 
Most fair was she, but sin and pride 

Stamped bold Samaria's outcast daughter. 
A drink from out the cooling spring 

He begs in accents faint and lowly ; 
And she a pitying glance did fling 

On our great Saviour pure and holy. ] 



LONELY HOTJES. 

He toiled beneath the sun's hot rays, 

From earthly joy and comfort riven, 
Through rugged paths and thorny ways, 

To win that straying soul for heaven. 
great humility and love ! 

O grace most infinite and mighty ! 
The Son of that great King above 

Revealing truths to her so brightly ! 

Ah ! who can doubt, when He has felt 

All worldly ills so calmly, swee%, 
For thee that pity's fount will melt — 

And He with fondest joy will greet thee. 
Each pain or grief thou bearest for him, 

If faith within thy soul is shining, 
Though worldly hope be faint and dim, 

Thy Saviour's love is round thee twining. 

If, like that outcast woman, all 

Who from the path of right are straying, 
Could hang on hope the sable pall 

Of sin that on each breast is weighing, 
The light of mercy would illume 

Each heart like poor Samaria's daughter's — 
Faith's torch would nickering doubt consume, 

And fill our souls with living waters. 



LONELY HOLES. 99 



ACROSTIC. 



T hem chosen bride of England's Royal heir, 

H ail ! hail to thee, most beautiful and fair, 

E ver from hence the Nation's pride and prayer. 

P ure and unsullied by a thought of woe, 

R eplete with joys to make this world most dear, 

I n paths of bliss oh ! may thy life- stream flow, 

N ever to feel one bhghting grief or fear. 

C hoice one of all, most gentle, good and kind, 

E ngland doth rest on thee with trust serene ; 

S oother of pain, in thee will England find 

S olace and peace for her bereaved Queen. 

O h ! may Hope's bright and ever fragrant tree 
E lower into lasting loveliness for thee. 

W ell may the people hail thee with one voice 
A s chosen well by our young Prince beloved, 
L ondly with him the nation may rejoice ; 
E ach heart to Alexandra now has proved, 
S he is the Prince's and the Nation's choice. 



100 LONELY HOUES-. 



SABLE BOBES. 

Oh ! put aside those sable robes,, 
They look so drear and cold. 

And, mother, wear thy sweet blue dress., 
xVnd rings of glittering gold. 

And put away that close stiff cap, 
Which shades thy lovely brow ; 

No tales thou telPst as thou wert wont, 
No rhymes you sing me now. 

You used, with lightest laugh and smile, 

To join me in my play ; 
But, mother, ah, you seem so changed, 

You never now look gay. 



Oh ! tell me where's our pleasant home, 

With garden trim and neat — 
The flowers, the stream, the warbling birds, 

And little mossy seat. 



LONELY HOU11S. 101 

That home, where in the evening hour, 

The fire more brightly burned — 
While father's coat and slippers there 

"Were warm when he returned. 



Where is that home — my father now ? — 

All is so different here — 
Ah ! mother, kiss me not so wild, 

Why, why this trembling tear ? 

This strange caress, and gasping sob, 

How oft I feel them now — 
They come with this black dress and cap, 

Oh ! tear it from thy brow. 



Pull down again those rippling curls, 
Come to that home so gay, 

And down the little shady lane, 
Meet father on the way* 

Ah ! now you tell me he is dead, 
And in a home more fair ; 

Then mother, wear those sable robes 
Until we join him there. 



10& LONELY HOURS. 

LINES WRITTEN IN THE GLASGOW 
NECROPOLIS. 

Pause, stranger, pause — in silence come 

With very meek and humble tread, 
In reverence for this hallowed ground, 

The sacred precincts of the dead. 
Oh ! who would breathe a word profane 

Within this spot so sweetly calm, 
The rest of many a weary heart, 

Which finds in Heaven immortal balm ? 

Upon this lonely hill of death, 

I gaze in pensive wonder down, 
And hear amid these dismal tombs 

The turmoil of the busy town. 
Sad type of life, still striving on, 

Ne'er thinking what the end must be., 
Grasping at shadows, till, alas ! 

We're launched into eternity. 
Below in noble, grand array, 

The old cathedral widely spans, 
And tomb-stones half effaced by age, 

Of true and daring Scottish clans. 
Around are monuments, which tell 

Of deeds and worth, now high in fame — 
Decayed mortality in dust, 

Immortal still thou art in name I 



LONELY HOURS. 103 

Apart, in deeper solitude, 

Are graves neglected, grassiess, fewj 
Life's toilsome pilgrimage is o'er, 

Here rests at length the weary Jew. 
O scattered race ! and hast thou found 

At last a home in this dull spot ? 
Where's now thy home — thy native land } 

Thine all ? ah ! thou art well forgot, 

O death ! great leveller of all, 

See here this spotless granite tomb, 
In regal splendour stands aloof, 

In solemn and in lonely gloom, 
And next it, unpretending lies, 

Where tiny shrubs above it wave, 
With fresh flowers strewn upon the earth, 

The good, though poor man's humble grave. 

Ah ! who would care to choose between 

That tomb so grand and towering high. 
In silent pomp and splendour there. 

Perhaps unwept, unloved to he ; 
And resting in this lowly bed, 

With bright Spring flowers its gloom to cheer, 
Placed there by gentle hands of love, 

And kept alive by friendship's tear. 



104 LO^ELT HOURS. 

All ! not for me fame's gilded scroll, 

Nor granite stone, or marble rare — - 
If virtue lingers o'er my name, 

Undhmn'd unsullied, pure and fair ; 
Let me in life remember death, 

Life's goodly fruits with kindness reap. 
And leave behind an honest name, 

And love will o'er me vigils keep. 



MY ISLAND HOME. 

Pensive near my casement musing, 

Eest I in the twilight gray, 
Dreaming with a spell-bound sadness 

Of dear friends now far away ; 
Wondering if for me there's living, 

E'en one kindly wish or thought — 
Hovering seemed my weary spirit, 

"While a far off land it sought. 
Listening to a voice remembered, 

Heard across the billows' foam ; 
Magic fancy, why not bear me 

To my own loved island home r 



LONELY HOLES. 105 

Like those clouds in twilight drifting, 

Laden with unfallen rain, 
Are my unshed tears depressing, 

Sad thoughts floating through my brain. 
Peace, lone mern'ry, rest and slumber 

In sweet dream-lands calm repose, 
Some rude hand will soon awake thee, 

And realities disclose. 
0, bright fancy still keep weaving 

Mystic thoughts beneath thy dome : 
Then in bliss I shall be dwelling 

In my own loved island home. 

Now the twilight gloom is thickening, 

Night's dark robe is o'er it cast, 
Yet when morning's beams are breaking, 

All these shadows will have passed ; 
So those gloomy thoughts will vanish, 

Chased away by love's sweet light ; 
And my heart will then be smiling 

At the sadness of to-night. 
Oh ! how sweet to picture meetings, 

Though afar I yet must roam. 
And to feel those fond caresses 

In my own loved island home I 



106 LONELY HOURS. 



TO AN EXAMINEE. 

There, seated on his throne of state, 

Behold the mighty Eense ; 
Just looking like a Senator, 

With precious little sense. 

He wields the petty power he holds 
With hard ungovern'd sway : 

No thanks to him if Students pass 
Examination day. 

His face, the mirror of his heart, 
Is poor, and thin, and white : 

Who would not quake before the frown 
Of such an awful fright ? 

A student now before him stands ; 

He'll crux him if he can : 
They say 'tis Fense's great delight 

To pluck an honest man. 



LONELY HOURS. 107 

Hard envy's pregnant in his breast 

And must have birth, I know — 
Deep jealousy must spring a leak, 

And Students feel its flow. 

Now by anatomy I swear, 

One subject I could prize : — 
Your heart, dear Fense, Fd like to know 

Of what does it comprise. 

Can it be made like that of man ? 

I scarce can think it true, 
Methinks in place of flesh and blood 

Fd find an iron screw. 

Well, brother Students, be advised 

The Ligaments to quote : 
They are the hobby of poor Fense, 

Of these be sure take note. 

The Os-innominata, and 

The Femur you should grind, 
Or you'll be ground, for much I fear 

Unto aught else he's blind. 

The Lingual nerve he also knows, 

But only as ninth pair — 
Just call it Hypoglossal and 

You'll see how he will stare. 



108 LONELY HOTJES. 

And from the cliamel house, I pray, 
Come forth red-raw to him : 

He knows no more — if these you pass 
Diplomas you will win. 

Fm done — so now will bid adieu 

To Fense's little song ; 
But should he think it is too short 

ril write one twice as long. 



BEING ME TO EFFY'S GEAVE. 

Turn not away — Oh ! hear my prayer, 

So little do I crave, 
In pity to this wild despair, 

Bring me to Effy's grave. 
Let me but plant upon that sod, 

Those flow'rs so pure and cold, 
Like him who sought his home with God, 

His sweetness to unfold. 
Within their native soil full soon, 

They'll freshly o'er him wave, 
Ah ! ne'er deny this simple boon, 

Bring me to Effy's grave. 



LONELY HOUE8. 100 

Though ye could weep at death's loud knell, 

No tears could flow from me, 
For ah ! my lone heart's mighty well 

Was choked with misery. 
Yet if thou'lt bring me to that spot, 

So hallow' d and so dear, 
Upon this sweet forget-me-not 

Shall fall full many a tear : 
And they shall calm my burning brain, 

Ah ! this is all I crave, 
In pity for this maddening pain, 

Bring me to Effy's grave. 



THE COTTAGE HOME. 

Is this the humble cottage home 

Once fill'd with hearts so true and kind, 
From which in bye-gone days I'd roam, 

A sporting, merry, thoughtless child ? 
But now this cottage, once so bright, 

Is left in ruins to decay ; 
Ah ! ever thus will Time's keen blight 

Moulder the fairest things away. 



110 LONELY HOUK.S. 

And this the lattice, still so dear. 

Where woodbine and the ivy met ; 
The silent tribute of a tear 

Falls hallowed by a deep regret. 
That woodbine, blooming once so sweet, 

Lies wither'd in fresh ivy now ; 
Oh ! thus through life how oft we meet 

Bruised hearts hid by a sunny brow ! 

Oh ! this was once a dwelling place, 

Eadiant in beauty all around — 
Replete with every homely grace, 

Where nought save love and joy was found. 
This hallowed scene — once, passing fair, 

Is left in ruins to decay ; 
Ah ! ever thus death and despair 

Moulder the fairest things away ! 



LONELY HOURS. Ill 



THEY SAY SHE'S HEARTLESS. 

They say she's heartless, that she cannot love, 
That they have sought her coldness to remove, 
And think that pride unbending is her mould, 
That she is harsh and heartless, proud and cold. 
They deem her heartless — could they know but a part 
Of love's pure fount which once swelled in her heart ; 
How freely all the bursting springs let go, 
To mingle in the stream of friendship's flow ; 
And still that heart is warm and full of truth, 
Tho' change has blighted, withered up her youth — ■ 
Even when her love was chilled by base deceit, 
When demon falsehood angel truth did meet. 
Truth conquered — she his falsehood could despise, 
And turn for strength to Him whose strength ne'er dies. 

List to that merry sound, his marriage bell ; 
Hark, hark, she cried, oh, joy, oh, peace, farewell. 
Again she listened, breathless with mad fear, 
So pale, yet to her eye could start no tear ; 
She could not weep, she could not even sigh, 
.The once deep fountain of her soul was dry. — 



112 LONELY HOUUS. 

The springs were shut, the tide of love was gone, 
Despair's dark waters filled her breast alone — 
She seemed as tho 7 her weary heart were dead, 
As from that fatal sound she wildly fled. 

Say is this heartless, oh ! too thoughtless ciwvd, 

Who feelest not pain 'neath which her spirit bow'd ? 

Ah ! worship that which time cannot decay — 

The star of truth, whose pure and holy ray 

Illumes in glory what was deepest shade ; 

Or thou niay'st see the idol which thou'st made, 

In all its base deformity, and shrink 

In horror from the abyss, at whose brink 

Thy soul was tottering ; thou wilt see 

Thine idol fall — thy vain idolatry — 

The death of love — for once bright truth is o'er,' 

Theyoung heart mourns — it breaks, thenloves no more. 



LONELY HOUKS. 113 



A VALENTINE. 



What innocence and grace combine, 

Sweet maid, upon thy lovely brow ; 
Oh ! let me worship at a shrine, 

So purely beautiful as thou. 
Accept the homage of a heart, 

Whose deepest love is all for thee ; 
Then let thy sHghtest smile impart, 

Bright hope throughout my destiny. 



A WISH. 

Oh ! may thy life as evening star light shine, 
Undimin'd by clouds, as with a ray divine ; 
And as that star, oh ! may thy soul be given, 
When life hath fled, a home and rest in heaven. 



114 LONELY HOUBS. 

THAT SILENT HOUE. 

We paused to look upon that scene, 

When all was hushed and fair ; 
To gaze upon the silver beam 

That fell in radiance there ; 
How sweet those waters rippled on, 

Beneath the moon's calm light, 
As in that hour she purely shone, 

So beautiful and bright. 
And as those waters glided past, 

Illumined by her rays, 
I prayed the star of hope might cast 

Such brightness o'er thy days. 
But ah ! those waters now are gone, 

Alas ! we heed not where, 
And memory's darkened wing hath thrown 

Shades o'er that prospect fair. 

Shall I, too, like that transient beam, 

Those waters which have fled, 
Sink coldly in oblivion's stream, 

To memory's pow'r be dead ? 
Ah ! will the friend of early youth 

Be all forgot by thee, 
Or will the flight of thought with truth 

In sadness turn to thee ? 



LONELY HOURS. 115 

Again the moon Trill calmly shine, 

But peaceful joy so bright, 
The links of thought could ne'er define. 

As on that lovely night. 
Again that scene as fair will be, 

In moonlight's thrilling power, 
But never prove so dear to me, 

As in that silent hour. 



EAREWELL TO THEE, IRELAND. 

Earewell to thee, Ireland, my dear native home, 
I leave thee, o'er Scotland's wild heather to roam, 
Whose skies and whose valleys in brightness may shine. 
But ah ! there's no beauty, sweet Ireland, like thine. 
They tell me of rivers, the broad noble Clyde, 
But sweeter I'd think o'er the Shannon to glide ; 
They tell me of mountains so high and so fair, 
More beauteous to me are the dear hills of Clare. 
Oh ! sweet island home, I may see thee again, 
Though now I must leave thee in sorrow and pain ; 
And health which has faded, and mirth which seems o'er ; 
May come back to me when I see thee once more ; 
As some perish'd flower whose tints fade too fast, 
Revives once again when the sun's o'er it cast. 



116 LONELY HOUES. 

Yet love's gentle beams, when their presence is near, 
Keep turning to smiles oft my sorrowful tear. 
In grief I have comfort, pure love, friends and home^ 
And Ireland the fairest where'er I may roam. 
Adieu, then, sweet island, thou land of my birth, 
One flower from thy wreath now is crumbling in earth ; 
One link from thy chain, and one joy from my soul, 
Which comes not again as time's sands onward roll ; 
( )ne heart that once loved me is now cold and dead, 
Its love and its truth to eternity fled. 
A dear tie is broken which bound me to thee, 
Yet, sweet island home, still thou'rt dearest to me ! 
One star in our sky shines more brightly than all, 
Whose pure gentle lustre on mortals doth fall, 
That star is our home, and, sweet island, thou art 
The lustre reflecting bright peace on my heart. 
Oh ! Ireland, I'll prize thee, my own native home, 
The dearest and fairest, where'er I may roam. 



LONELY HOUES. 11? 

CHILDREN. 

I never hear young children 

In laughter loud or sweet, 
But with a strange emotion 

My heart doth ever beat ; 
With inward voices singing, 
And raptures o'er me Hinging, 
As though my soul were springing 

Those little ones to greet. 

Sweet, joyous little children, 

Be merry, light, and free — 
If I could prompt your pleasure, 

A very child Fd be. 
Though critics should be sneering, 
Or satire keenly peering, 
My heart would not be fearing, 

If you approve of me. 

I love to see young children, 

So happy all the day, 
In pleasure or in mischief, 

For ever bold or gay. 
The girl with her wax dolly, 
Just christened Tom or Polly, 
Ah ! who could say 'twas folly 

To join them in their play ? 



118 LONELY HOURS. 

Though boys or girls, if children,, 

To me it is the same, 
I'd fling aside all sorrow, 

And enter in their game. 
Kites, marbles, tops, whatever 
Would suit the time or weather. 
Of them Fd weary never, 

Tho' they be wild or tame. 

Pure, innocent young children, 

Too soon life's morning's past ; 
Too soon the world's cold teachings 

Its shades will o'er you cast. 

I'd shield you from its sorrow, 

And mirth from you Fd borrow, 

While sunshine lasts, to-morrow 

May blow with chilling blast. 

Oh ! I have three wee children, 

A torment and a joy, 
A mine of rarest treasures 

That death could but destroy ; 
A home round which is twining 
Pure peace, and ever shining, 
'Neath clouds " the silver lining/^ 

Of love without alloy. 



LONELY HOURS. 119 

But still without these children, 

What should I do at all ? 
No one to run to frightened, 

If I should hear a fall ? 
And fear some limb is broken, 
Or little body choking, 
I run and find them joking, 

In answer to my call. 



But, then, those little children, 

Must own some magic art, 
For with their pure affection 

We could not ever part. 
They are a blessing given, 
From Him who reigns in Heaven, 
From earthly sin they're shriven, 
Young flowerets of the heart. 



120 LONELY HOURS. 

POOR WITHERED ROSE. 

Poor withered Rose, thou once wast bright. 

And welcome as the morning star, 
Till time with unexpected blight, 

Transformed us both to what we are. 
With golden hours you still are twined, 

And linked to thoughts of hope and joy j 
Thy wasted form recalls to mind, 

Past happiness without alloy. 
But though thou'rt blighted now, poor rose, 

Dear, dearer far art thou to me, 
Than any flower that freshly grows 

Upon its graceful parent tree. 

Poor withered Rose, we'll never part, 

Too well I love the hand who gave — 
And when death withers my fond heart, 

Thou'lt moulder with me in the grave. 
No beauty rare doth yield a spell 

Por careless ones to love you now, 
But I admire you now as well 

As when you graced your lovely bough. 
No perfume sweet thy form retains, 

As when to me thou first wast given. 
But oh ! thy little stem remains, 

Sacred as a gift from heaven, 



LONELY HOTJltS. 121 

Poor withered rose, thou'rt culled by one, 

In friendship to be worn by me ; 
But friendship was too cold a tone, 

I loved, and love was agony. 
Long, long I struggled deep to hide 

The passion that I dare not tell ; 
And e'en when lingering by her side, 

Despair would in my fond heart swell. 
I'll cherish thee for her dear sake, 

Whose tear-drop sparkled on this leaf, 
As dew on flow'rs when mornings break, 

They gave her pitying soul relief. 

Poor withered rose, stay next my heart, 

My dream of hope and love is o'er ; 
But thou wilt never from me part, 

Though she and I shall meet no more. 
Farewell, dear past, oh ! heavenly hours 

On golden pinions, fled away ! 
Thy path was strewn with purest flowers, 

Which now have moulder 1 d to decay. 
But oh ! this little rose most dear 

Shall link me to thy brightness yet, 
With visions shining sweetly clear, 

I would not for the world forget. 



122, LONELY HOURS. 



LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OP 
A FRIEND. 

Pause, Pause, another death hath come 

Unto those sadly stricken ones ; 
Pause, think 'tis but a transient life, 

The sand of time so quickly runs. 
Cut off so young, with eVry hope 

To make this world look fair and bright ; 
Thoughts, joys, and plans, where are they now ? 

In death's embrace, a mournful blight. 



Not three months since a brother, too, 

By most beloved, to others dear, 
With kindly heart for every one, 

Was sadly placed on death's cold bier. 
A mother, too, not long before, 

Sunk in the everlasting sleep : 
Oh ! stricken ones, there's pitying hearts, 

In sympathy with you who weep. 



LONELY HOURS. 123 

Oil ! what a grief — the young fair wife, 

Of but few months, left, lonely now — 
Ere yet the bridal wreath could fade, 

The cypress thorn hath pierced her brow. 
Fond sisters, ever true and kind, 

Are sadly grieving o'er his tomb : 
Pause, stranger, pause, respect such woe, 

In silence mourn his early doom. 

Now, worse than all, that aged man, 

With tottering steps, so sad and slow ; 
It wrings each heart to mark the tears 

That down his furrowed cheek still flow. 
His grey head bent, alas ! alas ! 

In mournful silence pass him by ; 
That grief too deep, too sacred is 

For any, save God's pitying eye. 

Is there no thought of comfort left ? 

Is there no staff to rest upon ? 
Are joy's pale flowers, withered, dead ? 

Is every hope for ever gone ? 
Ah ! no ; sweet comfort stays each heart, 

Though now dear earthly ties are riv'n ; 
One home, one Saviour, they have found, 

Safe in the better land of heav'n. 



124 LONELY HOURS. 



HAWTHORN. 

Oil ! talk not to me of the lily's pure tint, 

Its long graceful stem, and its petals so bright ; 

I grant it is lovely, but sweeter by far 

This hedge of gay hawthorn so beauteously white. 

The daisy, the primrose, the violet I love, 
The cactus, the woodbine, and little red rose, 

But something cloth steal to the heart from this tree, 
While a feeling, once dark, from the soul purer flows. 

It tells us of childhood, of bliss we then knew, 
Of plans, air-built castles, that fell to the wind, 

A mother's dear face, or a sister's sweet eyes, 
Of little companions then fervent and kind. 

Of friendships forgotten, of loves past away, 

Of cares we now smile at, our pets and our toys. 

The loud merry voices, the long ringing laugh, 
The romping together of small girls and boys. 

Ah ! well do I love thee, thou innocent flow'r, 
So homely, luxuriant, so humble and free ! 

How lavish thou art of thy sweet scented leaves. 
What lessons thou teachest, my beautiful tree. 



LONELY HOURS. 125 

Tkou'st done well thy part, thou hast blossomed and 
bloom'd, 

And many hearts gladdened beneath thy cool shade; 
Would lite thee I felt, every duty performed, 

That e'en one soul happy through life I had made. 

And blessings have we, but we hoard and preserve, 
All selfish, ungrateful, all thoughtless and vain. 

Prom vices and folly, a tear or a smile, 

There's many a brother such kindness would gain. 

There's not a wild flower that blooms in the field, 
Or rarest exotic that's nurtured by art, 

From meanest of shrubs to the stately old oak, 
But of Nature's great God gently speaks to my heart. 

This sweet little hawthorn, this pale tiny flower, 
Needs not our protection, invites us to love, 

It breathes but of nature, all bounteous of good, 
An emblem reminding of pure things above. 

The hawthorn, the simple white hawthorn for me, 
All wild and luxuriant, all pure as it grows. 

It breathes of my childhood, my God, and my home, 
While feeling once dark from the soul purer flows. 



126 LONELY HOURS. 



FAREWELL. 

Farewell, farewell, 'tis sad to part 
From one who is so dear ; 

And feel the life-blood of the heart, 
Flow with the parting tear. 



Adieu, adieu, 'twere better far 
"We meet not past to-night ; 

And let love's sweet but trembling star 
Sink ere it grows too bright. 



Good bye, good bye, when far away, 
And friends around thee dwell, 

Oh ! let thy thoughts e'en sometimes stray, 
To her who sighs farewell. 



LONELY HOURS. 127 



TO A FOP. 

Thy shallow falsehood's net I see, 
Which thou didst think to weave in glee ; 
A web so weak could never tell, 
It severed ere it wove its spell. 
And all entangled now it lies, 
Exposing cheats of deepest dies. 

You thought to trample on my heart, 
Mistaken thought, blind dupe thou art, 
To think that I could love a man, 
Whose vows of truth in lies began. 
Man — thou'rt unworthy of that name, 
Manhood, alas ! you do but shame, 
Yet for the future learn, I pray, 
That whatsoe'er a fop may say, 
Is food for laughter, scorn, and jest. 
Within a truthful woman's breast. 
Then take thy net, poor little boy, 
Until you meet a fitter toy, 
And seek your little sensual pelf, 
From those as brainless as yourself. 



128 LONELY HOURS. 



MY HEAET IS THINE. 

I ask not pleasure's golden chain 

To bind me with its spell, 
For soon each paltry link would break, 

Though I might love too well. 
I ask not wealth's vain glitt'ring show, 

Nor worship at its shrine ; 
Though lowly is thy path in life, 

My faithful heart is thine. 

I ask not rank ; its stately mien 

Would chill my burning breast ; 
Affection's calm and endless flow 

On coldness could not rest. 
Through life, midst ev'ry grief and joy, 

Love shall our souls entwine ; 
Upon the staff of truth Fll lean 

My faithful heart with thine. 



LONELY HOURS. 129 



AD ARE. 



Oh ! sweet Adare, so beautiful, so calm, 

So gay, and yet so full of soft repose, 
There's music in the rustling of each tree, 

Which with the tepid zephyr waves and flows. 
The streamlet rushing o'er its mossy bed, 

With white stones glistening 'neath its silvery tide, 
All, all, made lovelier, brighter, purer far, 

By one dear presence lingering by my side. 
The noble manor-house, where dwells, indeed, 

The poor man's friend, the hearts so good and kind ; 
The humblest peasant seeks it in his need, 

And feels the burthen lightened on his mi nd ; 
The beggar turns not from that stately door, 

With trembling fear, nor sinking, weary heart. 
For here true charity extends to all ; 

Long may it stand to act the noble part ! 
But now the reapers in the far-off fields 

Break through the stillness with their cheerful song; 
"lis wafted o'er us on the balmy ah*, 

And sinks in echo pleasantly along. 
The rustic bridge, the carolling of birds, 

The healthful odour of the new-mown hay, 
The cool green shades beneath the kingly oak, 

Mingle in softness 'neath the sun's pure ray. 
10 



130 LONELY HOURS. 

The stately ruins, beautiful, though sad, 

Decked with fresh ivy, clinging fondly still, 
That kindly screens the mouldering dust beneath, 

Like charity, sweet duty to fulfil. 
The hawthorn tree beside the ivy'd porch, 

Like one true friend, no time nor change can move, 
That stands in sweetness, faithful to the last, 

And sheds around him pure undying love. 
Whatever I see, where'er I turn my step, 

Fresh beauty meets me in a scene so fair ; 
Oh ! long may death keep off his iron sway, 

That thou may'st flourish proudly, sweet Adare. 



THEY TOLD ME THOU WERT DYING. 

They told me thou wert dying, 

And calmly did I hear, 
But none could see the anguish 

That dried up every tear. 
They wondered that I grieved not, 

While friends around thee wept, 
But who could see the feeling 

That 'neath my coldness slept ? 



LONELY HOURS. 131 

They told me thou wert dying. 

The hope of life was vain, 
And yet the fatal tidings 

Seemed not to give me pain. 
I felt that I was altered, 

A weight lay on my heart. 
The burden of great sorrow, 

That thou would' st soon depart. 

They told me thou wert dying, 

Their tears they could not hide, 
But grief that swells to bursting 

Runs in a shallow tide. 
My silent heart was breaking, 

Thou wert so truly dear, 
And 'twas my heart's wild anguish 

That burned up every tear. 

But no, thou wert not dying, 

That awful time is o'er, 
And now the light of heaven 

Shines on my heart once more. 
Long may'st thou live, my mother, 

And from, us never roam — 
For ah ! thou art the sunshine 

That lights our happy home. 



132 LONELY HOURS. 



IMPROMPTU LINES ON A STORM, 

I stand to watch the coming gale, 

In shelter near the Shannon side ; 
I know the lowering sky proclaims 

Its track along this trembling tide. 
And now it madly, wildly sweeps 

Each wave before its headlong course, 
All high and foaming still they rise, 

So helpless 'neath its mighty force. 
They roll and tumble, leaping on, 

A black mist rising on its crest — 
The vessels tossing to and fro, 

Rock roughly on the Shannon's breast — 
And sailors rushing here and there, 

Eor rope and chain to make them fast, 
While from the tide the angry spray 

Is carried on the chilling blast. 
I think of those far, far from home, 

Whose friends at this dark moment weep, 
And fervently I breathe a prayer 

Eor struggling sailors on the deep. 



LONELY HOURS. 133 

The strong -winds howling round the masts, 

My heart inspire with awe and fear, 
Methinks I hear, as thus I stand, 

Wild voices from another sphere, 
That mingling with the whistling wind, 

Rise in one strange despairing cry 
Of mortals struggling hard for life. 

Aud air has caught their last long sigh, 
And borne them from the spirit land, 

To centre thus in one loud wail, 
That we might hear, and pause, and think, 

And in its sound a warning hail. 
It seemed to say, beware, beware, 

Mark well thy footsteps as you go — • 
Keep from the marshy road of sin, 

Hid by the sweetest flowers that grow. 
You cannot trust the gale of life, 

Nor may you live another day ; 
And from the path you meant to take, 

You may be borne another way. 



134 LONELY HOURS. 

DEAD. 

Dead ! — awful word, thou source of deepest sorrow, 

Gushing in waves of darkest, direst woe, 
Meeting no island, where thy tide might borrow 

Moments of rest for thy unceasing flow. 
Headlong, thy course from out the sad heart swelling, 

Bursteth the floodgates of the weary soul, 
Streamlets of grief from out each fibre welling, 

Drenching life's sand thro' years as thou dost roll. 

Dead !-mournful sound that thrills with painful anguish, 

Striking each chord of grief within the breast. 
Vainly, alas ! each cadence wild may languish, 

Hov'ring in distance, it can know no rest. 
Quiv'ring and faint, still must its notes keep sounding, 

Trembling beneath some careless touch each day, 
Hard on the heart, the throbs of woe keep bounding, 

Until in Heaven, earth's echos fade away. 

Dead ! — vision sad from out the dark grave springing, 

Calling forth memory with a sceptred hand ; 
Ghosts of pale joy around the drear heart bringing, 

Beckoning us hence into the spirit land. 
Ever before us in the distance moving, 

Are phantoms of the hopes that long have fled ; 
All, all those buried hopes too truly proving, 

Mortals, our grief is in this one word— dead ! 



LONELY HOURS. 135 

TO 

Art thou not changed ? look back and read 

The pages of the past. 
And there thou'rt learn, how short indeed 

Doth man's weak friendship last. 
But friendship ever thus to me. 

Is but an empty sound, 
For if its truth is not in thee, 

On earth 'twill ne'er be found. 



I'LL NOT PBOFESS. 

I'll not profess an endless love, 
That time alone, sweet maid, can prove ; 
I'll not profess, though dear thou art, 
That thou'rt the chosen of my heart. 
I'll not profess if thou wert gone, 
That in this world I'd feel alone ; 
I'll not profess thou'rt loved by me, 
And yet I'll fondly pray for thee. 
Ah ! yes, I'll ask that every joy 
On thee may light without alloy — 
That flowers of happiness may grow 
Around thy path, where'er thou'lt go. 



136 LONELY HOURS. 

And oh ! to keep them fresh and fair, 
Unceasing still should be my care, 
And if from thee "'twould gain one smile, 
O'er thorns Fd travel many a mile. 
And if 'twould keep thee from one ill. 
My heart's best blood for thee Fd spill — 
But oh ! I fear I have profess'd, 
So, sweetest maid, thou'lt guess the rest. 



MUSIC. 



Oh ! for an hour all unobserved, 

To hear in rapture one sweet song, 
Which bursts unfettered from the lip. 

Regardless of a listening throng ! 
To feel my heart expanding 'neath 

That holy influence pure and dear — 
To know that none would smile in scorn, 

If silent fell a pensive tear; 
To feel as tho' my soul took wing, 

And reached in bliss another sphere. 



LONELY HOURS. 137 

Without thee, music, every joy 

Of earth all dull and stale would grow ; 
But 'neath the magic of thy spells, 

Our better feelings heavenwards flow. 
Ah ! then with peaceful pure delight 

Each nerve and pulse doth wildly thrill, 
As thirsty travellers on life's path, 

Who meet by chance a sunny rill — 
And as they drink the cooling draught, 

More grateful prayer their spirits fill. 

Oh, music ! — language of the soul, 

Thou wild yet gentle ecstasy, 
In thee, all radiant, are revealed 

Sweet visions of eternity ! 
Some thing that fills each soul with joy, 

Which neither sins nor sufferings leaven ; 
An inspiration from above, 

In mercy to poor earthlings given — 
An angel knocking at our hearts, 

To call our straying souls to heaven, 



138 LONELY HOUES. 

I KNEW I SHOULD NOT LOVE THEE. 

I thought I should not love thee, till my heart 
Gushed forth in deepest tenderness for thee ; 

Hope bade all formal coldness to depart, 
Leaving behind pure love's sweet mystery. 

I deemed I should not love thee, till my soul 
Burst every fetter that would bind it fast, 

Despising reason's weak and chill control, 

While love's bright sunshine thro' each fibre pass'd. 

I hoped I should not love thee, yet thou art 
Life's morning star, that shines all sweetly yet, 

And I will love though year on year depart, 
Until life's evening star doth dimly set. 



FAITHEUL STILL TO THEE. 

Eear not, though parting now is sad, 

Thy love hath made me blest, 
My thoughts are thine, for ah ! thou art, 

Their dearest home of rest. 
Oh.! doubt me not for I am true, 

Whate'er's my destiny, 
The passing winds shall waft afar, 

I'm faithful still to thee. 



LOXELY HOUES. 139 

Pear not, no earthly poVr can break 

The links our love hath twined ; 
Are they not woven with our lives, 

Our constant hearts to bind ? 
0, doubt me not, love's tie is fast, 

Nor loosened ere shall be, 
The sweet birds tell the world in song, 

I'm faithful still to thee. 

Pear not, though lonely years may pass 

Ere we again shall meet, 
Long absence will to us but make 

Re-union doubly sweet. 
Then doubt me not, but oh ! believe, 

Whatever is fate's decree, 
Truth's angel voice shall waft afar, 

I'm faithful still to thee. 



140 LONELY HOURS. 

FOOTSTEPS. 

Is there a heart so cold or dead, 

So desolately drear, 
As not to throb with quickened pulse, 

At footsteps drawing near ? 
They are a sound of grief or joy, 

Of fear or anguish deep, 
Hopeful and quick, sad, dull and slow, 

Time to the heart they keep. 
Oh ! mark that maiden fair and sweet, 

Beside yon tiny rill, 
With blue eyes strained in far off gaze, 

She eagerly stands still. 
A start, a blush, a gasp, a smile, 

One long and happy sigh — 
A stalworth form she sees, and hears 

Lor'd footsteps drawing nigh. 

Now see that rosy cherub there, 

In mischief, frolic, fun, 
Leap from the grass, shake back his curls, 

And bound, and pause, and run. 
Marbles and sweets, tops, playmates all, 

Forgets he in that cheer ; 
He speeds to meet a welcome sound, 

A mother's footstep near. 



LONELY HOUitS. 141 

Next mark on yonder stone, a man 

BoVd down with age and care ; 
Time's hand hath roughly mark'd his brow, 

And blanched his once dark hair. 
Yet still a smile can cross his lip, 

And hope spring to his eye ; 
He hobbles on, for he has heard 

A daughter's footstep nigh. 

But ah ! the picture changes now ; 

Hear in yon gloomy cell, 
A pale and starving wife and child, 

A mournful story tell. 
She crouches, shivers, moans and weeps, 

Wipes off the blinding tear, 
Then strains the infant to her breast, 

A drunkard's footsteps near. 

May it be long ere we shall feel, 

With deep and lasting woe, 
A footstep passing from our hearth, 

Be it or quick or slow. 
And may the hearts be few indeed, 

So desolate and drear, 
As not to throb with love and peace, 

At one loved footstep near. 



142 LONELY HOURS. 

Eootsteps are meaning heartfelt sounds. 

Of living hope or dead, 
And harbingers of good or ill, 

Are things of love or dread. 
Oh ! let us draw the veil between, 

Let hope illume our sky, 
And let us trust to heaven's path, 

Eootsteps are drawing nigh ! 



COLD WOEDS. 

Can chilling words of coldness, 

Which came not from the heart, • 
Loose bonds that once could hold us 

When near or far apart ? 
Those words were but profaning 

The truth to thee I bore ; 
Then is there not remaining 

One loving thought of yore ! 

Can all the flowers be blighted, 

Which grew in memory's chain ? 
If sunshine on them lighted, 

Would they not bloom again ? 
Oh ! thus the hope once beaming 

From this despair could dart, 
And love once more keep breathing 

"New life into each heart. 



LONELY HOUBS. 143 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR LITTLE 
CHILDREN. 

J Tis Christmas time, 'tis Christmas time, 

And all is bright and gay, 
And oh ! I hear in merry chime 

Young children at their play. 

And wee heads nodding very wise, 

Small whispering stories tell, 
Which little baby vainly tries 

To understand as well. 

" Papa has promised us such fun, 

Around the Christmas tree, 
And baby-boy a nice pop- gun, 

A great long sword for me. 

A party, too, is promised us, 

Of little girls and boys ; 
Oh, brother, won't there be a fuss ? 

They'll show us all their toys. 

Til have a fine loud drum and horn, 

To rattle them I can ; 
Oh, on this happy Christmas morn 

I'll be full-grown man. 



144 LONELY HOUES. 

Mamma has promised Sis' a doll, 
With eyes that slyly peep, 

And what she'll like the best of all, 
A little woolly sheep. 

And me a great plum-cake, so nice, 
I'll give some, Sis', to you, 

And then a pudding, all of rice, 
With currants in it, too. 

Yes, I will surely give you some, 
Just for my Christmas gift/'' 

(But sister, looking very grum, 
Suspects she sees a drift.) 

" Look, Sis', within your hand, and see 
How bright those sweetmeats shine ; 

Just give a little few to me, 
I'll give you some of mine. 

My cake will be so good, indeed, 

You'll like it better far," 
(But, oh, suspicion sows its seed, 

Their happiness to mar.) 

The little girl looked very sad, 
But brother kissed her tears, 

And in soft accents sweet and glad, 
He soothes away her fears. 



LONELY HOURS. 145 

" Well, keep them, Sis', and I will share 

All I have got with you ;" 
But, oh, two little arms so bare 

Around his neck soon flew. 

" Forgive me, brother, let us both 

In partnership combine/'' 
And then, she added, nothing loth, 

Fll give you all of mine." 

And now those children sit and laugh, 

In happy fond embrace ; 
And while young pleasure's cup they quaff, 

I can a moral trace. 

Some hearts we cherish, and from them 

We love expect again ; 
And when we ask of them a boon, 

Eefusal gives us pain. 

With kindness we should try awhile 

True friendship's fount to move ; 
'Tis worthy of a gentle smile, 

One little word of love. 

Those guileless children sitting there 

A plain example show ; 
'Mid weeds are flowers blooming fair, 

As through this world we go. 
11 



146 LONELY HOURS. 

Be neighbourly and kind, •'tis best, 

Heed not an angry tone, 
And tear suspicion from your breast, 

When first its seed is sown. 
Be gentle, patient, do not chide, 

But faults bear sweetly yet ; 
In trust and love, ah, still abide, 

Forgive, and you'll forget. 
While journeying through this vale aright, 

Faith's torch should guide our way, 
Lest overtaken by the night, 

We in its darkness stray. 



MY MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

My mother's prayer, my mother's prayer, 

Oh ! words of holy seeming, 
'Mid thoughts of innocence and joy, 

Within my heart, thou'rt beaming. 
The words I heard in infant years 

Come o'er me now in gladness, 
As sunshine in life's gloomy sky, 

Dispelling clouds of sadness. 
And ever softly o'er my soul, 

Sweet rays of bliss are flinging. 
Like music pass'd, and round my heart 

Its echoes still are clinging. 



LONELY HOURS. 147 

My mother's prayer,, my mother's prayer, 

Oh, calm and holy feeling, 
Sweet visions of the spirit-land 

To me thy child revealing. 
Hush, let no breath of worldly care 

Dispel this dream of brightness, 
And leave my spirit hovering still 

In shades of any lightness. 
Come gently, softly o'er my soul, 

Thou strain from heaven descending — 
Hush, with the angel choir I hear 

My mother's prayer now blending ! 



A WISH. 

May love's rare flower bloom for thee 
With buds of joy for every leaf, 

Sweet peace the boughs, bright hope the stem, 
Free from the prickling thorns of grief. 



148 LONELY HOURS. 



TO AN ABSENT ONE. 

Oh ! let me leave this thoughtless crowd, 

Weary and sick I grow, 
The music is too harshly loud, 

Mirth seems a senseless flow. 

I cannot bear this giddy throng, 
Where griefs pale lip must smile, 

And where vain flatteries steal along 
The weak ones to beguile. 

O, I shall leave this festive scene, 

This idle, hollow glare. 
Where broken hearts assume joy's mien, 

And throb 'mid falsehood's air. 

Adieu ! thou cold tho' brilliant hall, 
I'll seek the moon's pale glow ; 

This festive scene is narrow, small, 
For swelling love's deep flow. 

But 'neath the moon's own peaceful light, 

Amid the trackless space, 
The unchained soul, with wild delight, 

Her silvery path can trace. 



LONELY HOURS. 149 

And purest thoughts can swiftly fly, 

Unfettered, open, free, 
To mingle with truth's blissful sigh, 

Beloved one, for thee. 

Oh, if that breath could soar above, 

And melting turn to prayer, 
'Twould scatter near the throne of love 

In incense pure and fair. 

And God would waft that ether back 

To crown thy gentle head, 
To light with joy life's flow'ry track, 

And blessings on thee shed. 

Earth surely has some heavenly bliss 

To us poor mortals known, 
Thou lov'st me — yes, there's heav'n in this, 

My dearest one, mine own ! 



150 LONELY HOURS. 



A DREAM. 

I dreamed that I was near thee, and thy voice, 

In thrilling accents, spoke to me of love ; 
My soul, as tho' -'twere borne on angels' wings, 

Seemed leaving earth to join the host above. 
My heart felt bursting with its swell of joy, 

Too great the burden of its bliss did seem, 
And soon my trembling senses woke and found. 

In sad reality — "'twas but a Dream. 



Oh ! thus my spirit soars on hope to seek 

In all the future one dear spot of rest, 
And memory revels in bright feasts of love, 

With untam'd thoughts that nestle in thy breast, 
But we are far removed, and held apart 

By galling chains, which maddening fetters seem, 
And chill despair doth crush each hope to prove, 

In sad reality — all but a Dream. 



LONELY HOUftS. 151 

CHILDHOOD'S GEEEFS. 

Ah, say not childhood has no care, 

That all is sunshine then — 
That when the tears spring to the eye 

Smiles soon come back again. 
The panting breath, the quivering lip, 

Prove grief not all forgot ; 
Throw sand into a crystal stream, 

'Twill clear, but stir it not : 
So, at a word, a look, a smile, 

Fresh tears again will start ; 
Ah, who can know the clouds that fall 

In childhood on the heart ? 

Still like that sand though time may roll, 

A word unkind will sink, 
And settle in that youthful breast, 

E'en to the grave's sad brink, 
Life's waters all can darkened be, 

By e'en one thoughtless deed : 
How beautiful the fruit of faith 

Grows from one little seed ! 
Think not that youth forgets the pain, 

Because it does not last — 
That darker future buries deep 

The grey shades of the past. 



152 LONELY HOURS. 

Beware, beware, oh ! trifle not, 

Hearts are a golden mine — 
Ne'er draw the tears where smiles should beam, 

The clouds where sun could shine. 
Oh ! 'tis a blessing far above 

All other joy that's felt, 
The cold hard fountain of the heart, 

With kindly acts to melt. 
I never saw a child in grief, 

But longed to dry its tears ; 
Life's trials all too soon will teach 

Deep woe in after years. 

Yes, there are griefs — deep, heart-felt griefs, 

In childhood's transient hours, 
And many an infant thorn is plucked 

From love's young wreath of flowers. 
Oh ! let us nurture faith and hope, 

'Tis easy to be kind ; 
Example is a guiding star 

To every youthful mind. 
If charity root out the weeds, 

Bound hope love's wreath will twine ; 
Ne'er draw the tears where smiles should beam — 

The clouds where sun could shine. 



LONELY HOURS. 153 

AFTER A BALL. 

They led me through the merry dance, 

As sportive as a child, 
And thought that joy was in each glance, 

That mirth my heart beguiled. 
They did not mark the scorn I bore, 

To flattery's idle voice, 
Por though each word my bosom tore, 

I seemed but to rejoice. 
There's only one whose presence gives 

A charm to every thing ; 
Each radiant floVr of love that lives, 

To him alone doth cling. 
But carelessly he stood apart, 

With proud averted eye — 
Oh ! could he read the burning heart, 

That pass'd him coldly by. 
It was his right alone to show 

The homage others gave, 
But oh ! he let me drink the flow 

Of flattery's fulsome wave. 
I cared not for that merry dance, 

Yet laughed in wounded pride, 
Eor he who could each charm enhance^ 

Ne'er linger'd by my side. 



154 LONELY HOURS. 



STANZAS. 

A flow'r cannot live in the sunshine alone, 

For soon it would wither and fall to decay, 
But rain drops descending will nourish its growth, 

And each dying blossom in health will array. 
Thus love that in sorrow hath come into birth, 

The tears of the heart will mate pure and refine, 
And each tender feeling from sympathy sprung, 

What light fleeting pleasure could make so divine. 

What tho' there be darkness obscuring the light, 

That promised to brighten thy young days with joy, 
When past like that flow'r more freshly -'twill spring, 

Which long years of sunshine would only destroy? 
Eegret not, then, tears which impart to your love 

A depth and refinement no pleasure could give ; 
Like diamonds which sparkle more brightly in shade, 

The lustre of faith through dark sorrow will live. 



LONELY HOURS. 155 

A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. 

A letter from a dear old friend, 

It is a pleasant tiling ! 
The sweetest memories of the past 

Around the heart 'twill bring ; 
Recalling some old look or smile, 

Some one soft face most dear, 
Or tone that sounds so vividly, 

You almost think it near. 
The present all forgotten seems, 

In joy, full, sweet, and wild, 
Again you're sporting in the fields, 

A gay and thoughtless child ; 
Or culling pink- eyed daisies, which 

You, soon as culled, forsook, 
Or gathering little pebbles white, 

While paddling in the brook. 

A letter from a dear old friend, 

Through time and change the same, 
That bit of paper written o'er, 

What does it not contain? 
Sweet words of friendship, faith and love, 

Pure thoughts of one true heart, 
The gushing fountain of the soul, 

Unchecked by doubt or art. 



156 LONELY HOURS. 

A mind laid bare before the eye, 

Where thou may'est read and know, 
That thou art still as fondly loved, 

As in the long ago. 
A link that binds us strongly yet, 

To days that long have fled, 
And brings to life again sweet thoughts, 

We deemed for ever dead. 

A letter from a dear old friend, 

By age though half effaced, 
Let us again in fancy clasp 

The hand those lines has traced. 
But if J tis from a cherished one, 

Now still and calm in death, 
It seems as tho' that heart still breathes 

In it its parting breath. 
And if that friend had loved thee well, 

Had once shared every thought, 
Had felt your little griefs e'en when 

Life's lesson was untaught — 
Oh ! then it is a sacred thing, 

A voice from out the past, 
An echo of a hope gone by, 

Whose spell is o'er thee cast. 



LONELY HOURS. 15 

A letter from a dear old friend, 

Past ties can all renew, 
And that which once was happiness, 

Comes back once more to view. 
But are our thoughts and plans the same, 

And would we now recall, 
That which was so our joy and pride, 

Our solace and our all ? 
Ah ! no, those days of innocence 

Can never more return, 
The riper joys of riper years 

Such childish hopes would spurn. 
Yet if there's aught brings back once more 

One throb of childhood's bliss, 
A letter from a dear old friend, 

'Tis this, and only this. 



158 LONELY HOUKS. 

YOU SAY YOU LOVE ME. 

You say you love me — and I know 

Your truth is sun-like bright and fair, 
But from our hearts must passion flow 

"Mid troubled waters of despair. 
Oh ! never shall time's hand destroy 

The love that's rooted in my soul, 
And thrills mine every sense with joy, 

That reason's power would fain control. 

You say you love me — it were well 

Those words had ne'er escaped thine heart, 
For now this agonized farewell 

Must rend love's twining links apart. 
Remembrance still, still must be ours, 

Oh ! would thy love had ne'er been mine — 
I shield thee from the cloud that low'rs, 

And will not let its brightness shine. 

You say you love me — through dark years, 

Those words shall be mine earthly stay, 
And when I shed sad lonely tears, 

They'll tend to chase each grief away. 
Ah ! yes you love me, and I know, 

That sacredly thy vows are giv'n ; 
Still from our aching hearts shall flow 

A love that's registered in Heav'n. 



LONELY HOURS. 159 

THE LOCK OE HAIR. 

I gaze upon each little silken thread, 

Until my eyes grow blind with weary tears. 

And think of one now lying with the dead — 
The hope and joy of bygone happy years. 

He was the comfort of our mother's life, 

Our guide and stay when darkness spread around — 

The fond protector of a loving wife, — 

With children fair his peaceful home was crowned. 

Ah, simple lock of hah- ! what scenes of bliss 
Are brought to mind while thus I gaze on thee ; 

I little dreamed the last long parting kiss 
Would end, as now, in one wild misery. 

Alas ! the change — the sad and awful change — 
The widow'd wife, the tears that yet must flow, 

The broken household — thought doth backward range, 
To find its joy now turned to pain and woe. 

This lock was cut when white and still he lay, 
Most calmly in the arms of death, so young ; 

And as we watched beside the breathless clay, 
Our hearts with silent agony were wrung. 



160 LONELY HOUES. 

Beloved and lost ! ah, can it be that thou 
Art left alone within the churchyard cold ? 

Can damp and earth be resting on thy brow — 
The pale stiff shroud thy cherish'd form enfold ? 

Thou wast so prized, so honoured by us all, 

The sweetest light illum'ning life's pure stream, 

This braid each look and smile can so recall, 

That death appears as some wild dreadful dream. 

So good wast thou — too good, we thought for earth ; 

Unsulhed was thy name — thy deeds all kind — 
The star of virtue shone upon thy birth, 

Thy gentle teachings roughest hearts refined. 

Yet thou art gone, and broken now doth lie 
The happy hearthstone of our blissful home — 

The hope, so treasured, of the days gone by, 
Like scattered weeds upon the billows' foam. 

But this dark lock shall still stay next my heart, 
"Which now is bursting with regret and pain ; 

And e'en in death it shall not from me part, 
Until I meet that brother fond again. 

And shall we meet ? Ah, yes, in joy and love : 
Then cease, sad tears; becalm,thou throbbing breast! 

Let me, repentant, seek his home above, 
In sweet communion and eternal rest. 



LONELY HOURS. 161 

Onward shall time her pinions swiftly roll — 

On, ever on, unto Eternity ; 
Till then, enshrined within my grateful soul, 

Shall dwell, beloved, the tend'rest thoughts of thee. 

The oak and teil-tree droop beneath the storm, 
And seem as though then heathful sap had fled ; 

But hidden in each stem is life still warm, 

Though leaf and branch he withered, dry, and dead. 

Fresh Spring revives those trees, and verdant bloom 
Doth crown their heads in regal splendour fair ; 

Then all forgotten seems the tempest's gloom — 
Young hope hath chased away each dark despair. 

So faith within my soul shall live, tho' now 
Griefs tempest all my weary heart rolls o'er ; 

When life shall close, I'll say with radiant brow, 
We'll meet again, where storms can rise no more. 



12 



THREE DAYS IN KILLARNEY, 
ROSS ISLAND. 
"Weary and sick I came to Kenmare's Isle, 
My spirit woke beneath its radiant smile, 
And wild luxuriant loveliness so rife. 
As seemed to fan my being into life, 
And lift my soul from morbid sadness, till 
With strangest fancies it would glow and thrill. 
Then how I longed, with keen and fond desire, 
For one stray spark of pure poetic fire, 
That I might kindle in a colder breast 
Even half the rapture that my own oppressed. 
Alas ! my silent heart might rise and swell — 
Its inward workings, language could not tell, 
Turn where I would, whatever met my view — 
All was so lovely, all so fair and new. 
The woodman's cottage seemed a shady spot, 
A home for lovers by the world forgot, 
Who make their world but in each other's eyes, 
And rest content no other world to prize. 
Ross Castle, with its high and ruined walls, 
Whose goblin lore the stoutest heart appals, 
Stands proudly by the lake, looks grimly round, 
Like a true sentinel on battle ground, 
Since all the elemental wars of time 
Attach it faster to its stone of lime* 
Oh long, Ross Castle, may you proudly stand, 
In antique beauty on this fairy land. 

* Ross Castle is founded on a limestone rock. 



LONELY HOURS. 163 

MUCKROSS ABBEY. 

Dream of past ages, beautiful jet sad — 

Sad but to think that you must pass away ; 

Your hoary walls with varied ivy clad, 

One day shall fall in crumbling rank decay. 

Soft pity well might weep to know that fate 

"Won't spare a thing so sacred and so grand, 

That every ancient relic, good and great, 

Shall yet be levelled by his stern command. 

Oh ! venerable pile, in silent awe 

I list within your cloister deep to hear 

Strange sounds, as though amidst the yew* I saw 

Light spirits fleeting from another sphere. — 

I list, but all around is stilly calm, 

Save the dull flap of some wild raven's wing, 

Or the low bleatings of a distant lamb, 

Which through your vaulted chambers softly ring. 

O loveliest ruin ! sepulchres of old 

Yet tell the valour of your ancient chiefs, 

And Epitaphs effaced which may have told 

Some of their greatness,but not hah their griefs. 

Noblest of nuns, as you rear your head 

And lift your ivy'd tower proud and sere, 

The past a glorious lustre o'er thee sheds — 

I lift ray hand and wipe a patriot's tear. 

* In the centre of the cloister gro\V3 a magnificent yew tree, 
its circumference being 13 feet. 



164 LONELY HOUKS. 

THE GAP OF DUNLOE. 
Away with romance, and away with dull musing ; 

Adieu too, to sorrow and care ; 
Like doves who with eagles in freedom are soaring, 

Thought melts in Killarney's wild air. 
I'll mount on my pony though clouds dark and sullen 

May weep frowning tears as we go ; 
Away, honest Eobin, sagacious though lowly, 

We'll trip through the gap of Dunloe. 
Yet stay, faithful steed — who's the first come-to greet us 

With snowy goats' milk — can it be 
The lovely KateKearney? — no, no, she'sniore homely — 

Oh ! well, she's a branch of the tree. 
We'll quaff to her grand-daughter brimming contentment, 

And long healthful draughts may she brew ; 
Imagine the tints of the famed mountain daisy 

Bloom yet in her grand- daughter too. 
We're nearing theLake* — be it said but in'kindness — 

Where rests the foul serpent of old, 
Chased there by St Patrick, screwed safe in his coffin, 

The last of his race, I am told. 
I'm off to the reeks, tow'ring grandly above me, 

Which peep o'er the mountain's tall heads, 
Like worth over fate, though in modesty shrinking, 

For ever its bright beauty sheds. 

' It is said by tradition that St Patrick placed the last of the 
Irish serpents screwed down in an iron chest at the bottom of 
this lake. 



LONELY HOURS. 165 

On, on, patient Robin — oh ! dear, how 'tis pouring ! 

Twill wet poor Romance to the skin — 
And send him distracted to brainless young Folly , 

Who'll welcome the dripping god in. 

Farewell, Sir Romance ! it is time we were parted ; 

I deal in reality's game ; 
I'll enter the " half-way house" — beautiful picture 

Of mud and dirt — truth's not to blame ! 

" Good morning, sweet Nancy" — she's bitter and biting- 
" We'll shelter a while on our way" — 

She'll grow mighty civil, poor innocent victim, 
Provided you graciously pay. 

"What's this ?" "Soda water"-"No, this I am pinching? 

La, Nance, won't the poor baby cry?" [kets — 

"Hush, ma'am — 'tis the cratliur, lapp'd up in the blan. 

So just take a dhrop on the sly." 

At last comes the sunshine — most welcome gay truant ! 

To gladden our hearts with thy smile — 
So off again, Robin, and strength to thy trotters, 

We'll onward trip lightly a mile. 

You pause — so do I — here's a stop to my folly — 

A very dark period, I know ; 
Ah ! well, may each heart thus be merry and cheerful, 

So far through the Gap of Dunloe. 



166 LONELY HOURS. 

THE BLACK VALLEY.* 

My mood is changed, alas ! how sadly changed I 

And calm reflection chaseth mirth away — 
I now could weep in bitterness and pain — 

Forgetfulness, oh ! why withhold thy sway ? 
'Tis not so often I this boon can ask — 

Tis not so often that I feel so free ; 
One bright brief hour has closed my blissful dream ; 

I turn, sweet nature, all in thought to thee. 

Oh ! Cooni-a-Dhuv, deep vale of beauty rare, 

Like a dark blood-stone set in diamonds bright, 
Partly o'ershadow'd in thy bed of green, 

Then beam reflected on thy waters light. 
Oh ! not to me could'st thou look black or drear ; 

Thy lonely wildness has a charm for all, 
Sweet pet of nature, watched o'er fondly still, 

By guardian mountains, like some fairy hall. 

I leave thee with regret, thou valley wild, 

With one long look, perhaps indeed my last, 
Yet never can my heart forget thy charms, 

While memory's shrine can hold them pure and fast. 
Nor can I but remember yon calm lake, 

For o'er its bosom fancy bears me yet ; 
Sweet thought turns backward in delighted maze, 

To every gem in nature's casket set. 

* This Valley is also called Coom-a-DhuY, 



LONELY EOURS, 167 



THE OLD WEIR BRIDGE. 

The old weir bridge., the old weir bridge. 

To me trie sweetest spot on earth ! 
Where bright Killarney's rapids flow, 

And dance along in mnrmnring mirth* 
Where Dennis Island calmly smiles 

In placid beanty o'er the lake, 
Inviting happy hearts to dream 

In the sweet bowers the fairies make 
Their home, and that in revelry, 
May mortals join them there in glee. 

The old weir bridge, the old weir bridge, 

Who has not seen thy arches sweet, 
Nor felt the green arbutus wave 

Near many a soft and mossy seat — 
Nor seen the maids from mountain's side, 

Bun laughing with their (( mountain dew'' 
With looks no mortal could withstand, 

While ruby lips and eyes of blue 
Are blended with a roguish air, 
Beside the bridge, who meet thee there. 



168 LONELY HOURS, 

The old weir bridge, the old weir bridge, 

Where all the cup of pleasure quaff — 
Where hearts beat high with joyous throb, 

To hear Dan Hurley's merry laugh. 
Good houest Dan, long may thy arm 

Have strength to row thus gaily on, 
And still may Avery's bugle sound 

In echoed sweetness pure and long I 
As though each mountain sang a lay, 
In plaintiff music far away. 

The old weir bridge, the old weir bridge, 

What wondrous tales of hope are thine ! 
Near thee what vows of love were breathed ! 

Bound thee what youthful memories twine ! 
And thoughts undying still are twined 

To thee like evergreens to spring, 
Fresh through the stormy ills of life, 

And with heart-leaves to sweetly cling, 
And so as time may onward flee, 
That bridge, the old weir bridge for me. 



LONELY HOU11S. 169 



FAREWELL TO KILLARNEY. 

Oh ! here could I rest, sweet Killarney, for ever, 

Entranced thus to gaze on each mountain and lake, 
Alone amid Mangerton's dark broomy heather, 

And listening to tones that thy echoes awake. 
Oh ! calm land of beauty, all tranquil, enchanting, 

Thou bright fairy scene of enjoyment and song, 
Where nought of sublime or of softness is wanting — 

While fresh scenes of wonder around thee still throng. 

Farewell, bright Killarney, thou vision most lovely, 

Long years shall reflect thee from memory's store ; 
Oh ! fair be the sky ever shining above thee, 

And balmy the breeze ever fanning thy shore. 
Farewell, round the core of my heart ever twining, 

In love and in rapture thy sweetness shall dwell, 
A light in my bosom to ever keep shining, 

By absence undimmed — sweet Killarney, farewell. 



170 LONELY HOURS. 



THE TONE OF FRIENDSHIP. 

How sweet the tone of friendship falls 

When heart to heart can fondly twine, 
As though the dew of heaven descends, 

Our earthly feelings to refine : 
And steals so softly on the soul, 

When love's pale star doth coldly set, 
As though the lustre of his rays 

In pity lingered with us yet. 

How sweet the tone of friendship falls, 

When distant far we sadly roam, 
As though a voice remembered well, 

Recalled us to our native home ! 
It must fall gently on the heart, 

When it can dry the exile's tear, 
As though soft music breath'd once more 

The melodies he used to hear. 



LONELY HOTJUS. 171 

How sweet, the tone of friendship falls 

Upon the dying soldier's breast, 
As though a messenger of heaven 

'Would bear him to his home of rest. 
And oh ! so gently can it steal 

Upon the widow's bleeding heart, 
As though the balm of sympathy 

Would kindly soothe the aching smart. 



Still sweet the tone of friendship falls, 

Should all our dearest hopes be dead, 
As though the lamp of happier days 

Its genial brightness still would shed. 
Then let us all in friendship meet — 

Let friendship's truth our souls combine ; 
This is the leading star of life, 

A heav'nly taste of bliss divine. 



172 LONELY HOLES. 

GOOD BYE. 

Good bye, belov'd — and art thou gone ? 

O misery that thought — 
And with thee all the joy Fve known 

With richest blessings fraught. 

As day-light breaks through clouds most dark. 

And lends a brightening ray, 
Within my breast glowed hope's fair spark, 

Too soon to pass away. 

Now tears of blood could never tell 

The agony I bear; 
That hope turned, with the parting knell, 

To life-long black despair. 

But Oh ! farewell for ever now — 

And what is left for me ? 
All read it on my altered brow, 

One page of misery. 

And yet -'tis joy to think, belov'd, 

We'll meet again on high; 
Then bliss at last, my own long loved, 

My life, my soul, good bye ! 



LONELY HOUItS. 173 



A WISH. 



May bright success crown every hope 

That swells within thy noble heart; 
May joy come smiling o'er thy way, 

To bid all sadd'ning care depart ! 
Oh ! may the laurel wreath be clasped 

All proudly on thy manly brow; 
That every obstacle to fame 

May vanish from thy pathway now. 
Oh! may one true and steadfast love 

Cast o'er thy soul its blissful rays, 
To cheer a home where comfort dwells, 

And shed a light o'er all thy days ! 
May wealth spread forth her golden wing 

To shelter thee where'er thou'lt go; 
For in the depth of thy true soul, 

The tide of charity doth flow. 
Oh! that each hard and rugged path, 

Faith's gentle hand may smooth for thee, 
And when declining years roll on, 

That peace may gild futurity ! 
Thus may each blessing pure and high, 

To thee throughout this life be given; 
May bright success crown every hope, 

To make thy lot an earthly heaven ! 



174 LONELY HOUItS. 



THE SONG OF THE PAST. 

Oil ! bid me not to sing that song, 

'Twas lie who sang it last; 
It tells of joy for ever gone, 

It breathes but of the past. 
Ah, no, I could not sing that lay, 

Then ask rue thus no more ; 
Its once loved tone hath died away, 

Its harmony is o'er; 
For oh ! 'twas he who sang it last, 
And now 'tis sacred to the past. 

That song to this fond heart could bring 

A fount of love sincere, 
And from my soul's true depth could wring 

A sad regretful tear. 
From mem'ry I may strive to rest, 

Yet oh! it is in vain; 
Each note is thrilling in my breast, 

Each word there doth remain; 
And oh! that song will ever last, 
Sacred to him and to the past. 



LONELY HOU11S. 

The lips that sweetly sang that song 

In death are silent now. 
And oft' I know the merry throng 

Doth mark my altered brow ; 
They wonder that I cannot sing 

The song Fve sung before, 
Which doth recall with darkened wing 

The happy days of yore; 
For oh! that song through life will last., 
A memory sacred to the past 



SAD REFLECTIONS. 

I saw his cheek from thought grow pale, 

I knew the struggle of his heart, 
"Where anguish like a furious gale 

Had torn the ties of joy apart. 
I know he loves, and I return 

His passion deep with all my soul, 
Though not one ray of hope doth burn, 

That reason might our love control. 



176 LONELY HOURS. 

Time, time may teach, him to forget, 

That once his youthful thoughts were mine ; 
If he could never feel regret 

My thankful heart would not repine. 
No word of sad reproach would tell 

The weight of sorrow that I'd bear, 
Nor should he know the last farewell 

Had ripen' d seed of rank despair. 

To some bright stranger he may give 

The love that now is all my pride, 
Then, great heav'n, how could I live, 

To see another as his bride; 
And know in trusting love she'd claim 

The place that now he offers me, 
When t'would be sin to breathe his name, 

E'en at the shrine of memory ! 



LONELY HOURS. 177 



HOME. 



Give me my home, 'tis all I ask, 
My humble quiet hearth, 

In true affection's sun to bask, 
Where peace and joy have birth. 

I envy not the giddy throng, 
The thoughtless or the gay, 

While true affection is my throne, 
I'm happier far than they. 

I envy not the rich nor great, 

Nor any in the world, 
If love so pure is but my fate, 

My flag of joy's unfurl' d. 

Then give me this, 'tis all I ask, 

My happy quiet home, 
In sweet affection's sun to bask, 

I'd never from it roam. 



13 



178 LONELY HOURS. 

FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING. 

All ! why this sadly mournful strain 

From one whose hopes are bright and fair ? 
It is too soon for thy young heart 

To feel deep sorrow or despair. 
Thy grief is sacred unto me ; 

O would its source I could control ; 
Then, let me offer at its shrine 

The sympathy of all my souL 

I marked a simple violet grow 

Beneath the sun's continued light : 
His heat soon withered that poor flower,, 

And there it lay, a useless blight. 
A cloud came o'er him, and night's dew 

Then made it spring again more sweet ; 
Its leaves refreshed, its stem unbent, 

And all things fair it seemed to greet. 

Thus will it be with thy young heart, 

Tho' sorrow now looks dark and drear, 
The time will come when thou wilt bless 

The falling of each lonely tear. 
If joy's sweet star continued bright, 

We would not prize his rays divine : 
Tears from the fountain of our grief 

The soil of each heart can refine. 



LONELY HOUll:?. 179 

Then let the incense of thy woe 

Be wafted to the throne above ; 
A pitying King on it will smile, 

And pour upon thee peace and love. 
O'er memory's space thouTt gather joys, 

Whose fragrance thou wilt all retain ; 
O blissful days will dawn once more, 

And happier seem from former pain. 

Then, hope on, dear one, smile again, 

Peace, joy, and love's in store for thee ; 
Hope on, hope on, and cast aside 

This sad desponding misery. 
Ah ! if the wish of one true friend 

Could e'er indeed avail thee aught, 
Then every moment of thy life 

"With richest blessings would be fraught. 

The brightest sun can be o'ercast 

By clouds that slowly move away, 
But then his beams burst out again, 

And bring us back a brighter day. 
Thus, thus thy grief from thee will pass, 

Though now its source Pd fain control ; 
Then let me offer at its shrine 

The sympathy of all my soul. 



180 LONELY HOUKS„ 



MY SOUL'S WOEST AGONY. 

'lis thus that thou dost part from me, 

Without one sadd'ning tear. 
One word of parting's misery 

For one who was so dear. 
Oh ! must I arm my soul with pride, 

Must I no longer weep ; 
With careless mien Fll strive to hide 

This love so strong and deep — 
For ah ! thou'rt changed indeed to me, 
Which to my soul is agony. 

Ah ! is it thus you leave me now? 

With breaking heart alone, 
'Neath sorrow's weight to meekly bow, 

And weep o'er joy that's flown. 
How changed thou art, that eye once soft, 

Looks now so stern and cold ; 
With seeming truthfulness how oft 

Each look thy love hath told — 
But now thou'rt changed indeed to me, 
This to my soul is agony. 



LONELY HOURS. 181 

Go, go, since thou dost part from me 

Iu coldness and disdain, 
Thou shalt not mark my misery, 

Nor mock my silent pain. 
Ah ! was it kind when thou did'st win 

My young confiding heart, 
That all this sorrow thou should'st brings 

That thus we two should part — 
To love thee still tho' false to me, 
This is my soul's worst agony. 



"THINK NOT OF THE PAST." 

Think not of the past when the future is glowing 

All bright in the sunshine of young hope and joy ; 
When Fame's purest halo thy brow will illumine, 

With honors that envy can never alloy. 
When happiness full in thy pathway is beaming, 

And crowds throng around in prosperity's hour, 
When gathering sweetness from each bud of friendship, 

Thou dream' st not that poisonmay lurk'neath the flower. 



182 LONELY HOURS. 

Think not of the past, love, let me be forgotten, 

Tho' truth is a gem on the earth rarely found, 
Experience will teach thee I trust not in sorrow, 

To prize well the brow with its diadem crowned. 
But if 'tis in sorrow, then, dearest, remember, 

The heart thou has won in the days long gone by 
Shall welcome thee back, with its old love and gladness, 

And smile when thou'rt glad, or will weep when 
thou'lt sigh. 



Think not of the past, love, when age is advancing, 

And life in its winter chills sympathy's glow ; 
"When memory wanders o'er shadow and brightness, 

To trace gentle feelings e'en then that may flow. 
But when to eternity calmly thou'rt gliding, 

The spell of my truth may around thee be cast ; 
If something should whisper one heart then is breaking 

My name may be fondly entwined with the past. 



"LONELY HOURS. 183 

A VALENTINE. 

There is a heart that fondly beats, 

Whose every thob is mine ; 
Untouched by falsehood or by grief — ■ 

Where hope and joy combine. 

There is a voice, whose slightest sound, 

Thrills with a sweetened tone, 
Where grating discord never jars, 

Whose harmony's mine own. 

And there are eyes of soft dark hue, 
Where truth sheds forth its light ; 

Whose every glance doth speak of love, 
And peace serenely bright. 

Thine is the heart that fondly beats, 

The voice I like to hear ; 
Thine are the eyes that tell me oft, 

I am most truly dear. 

A guiding star's thy love to me, 

From every sinful leaven; 
Then surely I am right to prize 

What leads my soul to heaven. 



184 LONELY HOURS. 

TEN YEAES GONE BY. 

Ten years gone by — ten years to-day, 

When happy in my girlhood's pride, 
Upon the altar-step I knelt, 

A very young and trusting bride. 
How changed the world, how changed am I, 

How dim the hopes that once were bright ; 
I'm like a shrub uprooted now, 

And thrown aside, a mournful blight. 

Ten years gone by — that scene, that form, 

Both rise before my memory yet, 
And this weak pulse must cease to throb, 

Ere I that happy past forget ; 
He took my hand within his own, 

And vow'd he'd ever love me well ; 
The God who reads the hearts of all 

That truth or falsehood best can tell. 

I looked upon my future path 

With hopeful, far too hopeful, eye; 
Love lent its rosy tints to earth, 

Dipp'd all around within its dye : 
So when a change came o'er his smile, 

Although he may have loved me still, 
I could not brook that altered gaze, 

And soon my heart grew sad and chill. 



LONELY HOURS. 185 

I grieved, I shrunk within myself, 

And thought if he did ever feel 
The depth of love he once professed, 

No change like this could o'er him steal. 
I longed for one soft word of love, 

Some warmer light to near me shine ; 
But, ah, 'twas ever all in vain, 

~No love from him could round me twine. 

Yet he was always thoughtful, kind, 

And strangers thought me light and gay, 
But oft he marked me pale and sad. 

And bade me chase the tears away. 
He thought 'twas folly, laughed, and said 

Too much from him I sought to claim ; 
Yet, oh ! so little could he miss 

One look or tone of old the same. 

And so I thought iu solitude, 

Till days and months crept into years, 
And he grew colder, colder still, 

And all was gloom, and woe, and fears. 
Oh ! what was life, or aught to me, 

"Without his watchful care and love ? 
My broken spirit, crushed and sad, 

Turned from this earth to rest above. 



186 LONELY HOUES. 

And now I'm dying, leaving all ; 

Oh ! deepest grief doth o'er me roll, 
To leave my children to the world — 

Whose life hath grown within my soul. 
How can I break this sacred tie ? 

They are so young, so tender, fair ; 
The world so cold and hard, alas ! 

How they will miss a mother's care. 

O ! husband, had'st thou ever been 

All that you fondly vowed to be, 
The die so soon had not been cast — 

It would have spared this misery. 
My little ones, my children dear, 

When I am laid beneath the sod, 
My orphan pledge will find in heaven 

A guide and father in their God. 

0, how my heart doth throb ; this room 

Seems growing closer, hotter still. 
Feel this pale brow, this damp cold hand ; 

'Tis death's approach — its clammy chill. 
Come, loved ones, near. 0, husband mine, 

Now from this world I'll peaceful go. 
Look up ; you weep. 0, seem as fond 

As in those ten short years ago. 



LONELY HOURS. 187 



UXTOLD LOYE. 



Be still ; fond heart; nor let thy beatings tell 

Of thy deep love ; 
Throb not so wildly when I breathe farewell,, 

Thou must not move. 
But calmly stay as tho' that fatal word 

Would pain thee not : 
And life's lone journey through this dreary world 

My uncheered lot, 
Would ne'er be shadow' d by a thought of one, 

The dearest, best ; 
Oh ! I must travel life's dull path alone, 

By love ne'er blest. 
Oh ! should I mount to passion's dizzy height, 

Despair would hurl 
The leading vision from my blinded sight, 

And then unfurl 
Grief's sable wing, to wrap me in its cloud, 

And strive to blast 
The pedestal on which she's purely crown' d 

While life will last, 
The one bright idol of my burning heart, 

For on love's throne 
She reigns supreme, and from it can depart 

With life alone. 



188 LONELY HOURS. 

Be calnx, fond heart, nor let thy fountain spring 

With love's deep wave ; 
Hard reason's rock to thee would coldly bring 

A silent grave ; 
The rippling waters of love's sunny stream 

That rock would stay. 
And rudely wake me from my blissful dream, 

And chase away 
Those brilliant thoughts, which fain would bind me still 

With magic link, 
And freely loose sweet love's enchanting rill, 

And bid me drink, 
'Till reason's strength from me the cup would dash, 

The poisoned gall 
Of grief's own dregs, each joyous tie would smash 

And break love's thrall, 
Which kept my heart a willing captive there — 

A slave tho' free, 
Chained by love's bond, but loosed by dark despair, 

Yet thought will be 
The lamp which shall illume my darkened lot, 

With magic spell ; 
I only ask that she'll forget me not, 

In this farewell. 



LONELY HOURS. 189 



STANZAS. 

Thou wert the star whose power first 

niiimed rny darkened sky, 
And I believed with joy and trust 

That lustre could not die. 
Ah ! well I loved, and fondly thought 

Thy soul of truth shone bright ; 
But falsehood's cloud a- change hath wrought, 

And shadowed love's pure light. 



Upon life's path the rays of truth 

A beacon light should glow, 
And on our lips, from earliest youth, 

Its eloquence should flow ; 
When falsehood dims that lovely star, 

How dark must be our way ! 
For when that beacon light's afar, 

We're from our God astray. 



190 . LONELY HOURS. 

With deep regret from thee I part,, 

Thy love with grief I spurn ; 
The fatal error of thy heart 

Forbids that love's return. 
Tear out mine image from thy breast, 

E'en friendship now is o'er ; 
With falsehood truth could never rest. 

And we shall meet no more. 



'Tis sad thy course of life must flow 
In sorrow's lengthened stream ; 

Would o'er it one pure light would glow- 
Sweet truth's immortal beam. 

Farewell ! 'tis fit I leave thee now, 
'Tis hard to see thy pain ; 

But falsehood's brand is on thy brow, 
And faith hath ceased to reign. 



LONELY HOURS. 191 

SPRING. 

Oil spring, sweet spring ! how beautiful thou art, 
How soft thy influence steals upon the heart, 
So stilly calm is all around me uoav — ■ 
Imprinting peace upon young nature's brow ; 
Decking her form with tiny emerald leaves, 
'Midst dewy ivy's more luxuriant wreathes, 
Sweet ruby berries blending in relief, 
"Which from those emerald gems so coyly peep. 
The dew drop's diamond sheds its lustre down, 
The brightest jewel in young Nature's crown, 
So purely fair, from earthly dross so riven, 
It breathes alone of Nature and of Heaven ; 
Coming so meekly from that realm above, 
To nourish those weak buds with peace and love. 
So Nature's God, when mortals faith grows cold, 
Doth loose love's mantle — wraps us in its fold, 
In sweetest mercy it is o'er me cast, 
Shelf ring our souls from sorrow's keenest blast. 

Oil spring, sweet spring ! thou'rt beautiful and glad, 
Though now I hail thee with a song so sad ; 
And pink-eyed daisies all their sweetness shed, 
The golden crocus, smiling lifts her head ; 



192 LONELY HOURS. 

The first pale primrose tremblingly looks up, 
Distilling odours from its fairy cup. 
While birds are carolling their songs in glee, 
And hopping lightly on from tree to tree, 
Though tones of joy around me softly roll, 
One lonely grief is weighing on my soul. 
Each blade of grass which doth before me wave, 
Reminds me sadly of a brother's grave, 
Whereon spring flowers bloom in beauty rare, 
Hiding the good and true now buried there ; 
But as my heart looks o'er the path he trod, 
It bows in gratitude to Nature's God, 
The memory of his virtues yet can fling, 
A halo o'er thy sweetness, lovely spring. 



LONELY HOURS. 193 

TO A EEIEND ON HEE SISTEE'S MAEEIAGE. 

Ah ! she is happy — why should' st thou 

Shed e'en one selfish tear ? 
Then chas.e the cloud from off thy brow, 

And banish every fear. 
I know she was thy young heart's life — 

Sister in soul and mind — 
And thou would'st shield from every strife 

A being so refined. 

Oh ! she is happy, that sweet girl, 

And thy young hopes seem flown : 
Another heart hath won the pearl, 

That once was all thine own. 
But ah ! believe thou'lt ne'er regret, 

The sphere in which t'will shine, 
The jewel is more brightly set 

Than if it still were thine. 

Yes, she is happy — ne'er to part 

The idol of her life — 
Each day she'll bless with grateful heart, 

The sacred name of wife. 
Then do not shed another tear, 

Her purest love is given 
To one who still shall prize it here, 

A holy gift from Heaven. 
14 



194 LONELY HOUKS. 

THOU'ET LOYED AND LOVELY STILL. 

I have loved thee in the spring time 

Of thy childhood's rosy mom, 
When the sweet flow'rs blossomed brightly, 

Purely and without a thorn ; 
When the loveliest lights were sparkling, 

Studding all thy life's young sky ; 
Jewels of thine heart's pure casket, 

Love the brightest beaming nigh. 

I have loved thee in the summer 

Of thy girlhood's blushing day, 
When the star of hope shone sweetest, 

Chasing shadows all away ; 
When true hearts who fondly worshipped 

Thy young beauty half divine, 
I more fondly still was bowing 

At the same sweet earthly shrine. 

I have loved thee in the autumn 

Of thy life's declining noon, 
Like fair flow'rs though joys were fading, 

Falling from thine heart too soon ; 
Yet oh! dearest, in the twilight 

Twinkling stars I yet could see; 
And with youth no longer glowing, 

Thou wert lovely still to me. 



LONELY HOURS. 195 

Now I love thee in the winter, 

''Mid the gathering night of age. 
And fair memories of gaj snmmer 

Cast a brightness o'er life's page. 
What! though brow and cheek be wrinkled, 

And thy head be silvered o'er, 
I for thee, in thee, am living, 

As in sweet spring time of yore. 



HAWTHORN. 
I never see hawthorn, 

Fragrant and white, 
Bnt scenes of my childhood 

Come o'er my sight ; 
Picture of merry glee, 
Fondly I cherish thee, 
Thou sheddest over me 
Purest delight- 
Dearest old long ago, 

Come o'er my heart ! 
Make me a child again, 

Free from all art. 
As in the pebbly stream, 
'Neath which bare feet did gleam, 
So like a fairy dream, 
Ne'er to depart. 



196 LONELY HOURS. 

Changed am I now, alas I 

Altered the world, 
Grief's flag above me waves, 

Sadly unfurled ; 
Sorrow a shaft doth send, 
Where e'er our steps may bend, 
Hope to untimely end 

By grief is hurled. 

Yet who, little hawthorn, 

Seeing thy bloom, 
Thinks not of bygone joys, 

Hid in the tomb ; 
Thy budding flowerets fair, 
Twined in bright golden hair, 
When all so happy were, 
Morning and noon. 

Thy odour, white hawthorn, 

Dewy and sweet. 
Calls brightest visions from 

Memory's seat; 
Casting a halo around 
Love •'till it doth abound, 
As though by heaven crown'd, 
With faith to meet. 



LONELY HOURS. " 197 

I never see hawthorn. 

But thoughts of love 
Come o'er my heart and soul, 

Nature to move — 
Shedding a grateful tear, 
Praying in holy fear, 
Beaching the Hst'ning ear 

Of Him above. 
Oh ! lovely young hawthorn^ 

Simple and free, 
Of all Earth's fair blossoms, 

Fairest to me ! 
Bud on from day to day, 
Ever look bright and gay, 
Never may'st thou decay, 

Sweet hawthorn tree. 



OH ! WHEBE IS THE OLD HOME ? 

Oh ! where is the old home, the home loved so dearly, 

The fireside so bright with its jests light and gay, 
Where heart-songs of harmony rose pure and clearly, 

With friends smiling round us — ah ! now where 
are they ? 
Where, where are those hearts once so fond and united, 

The calm joy imprinted on each sunny brow, 
The peace round the hearthstone, the glances lovelighted, 

Oh, have they all vanish'd — oh, where are they now? 



198 LONELY HOURS. 

Oh ! where is the old home ? can strangers be dwelling 

In that sacred temple,, to us still so dear ? 
With Death's chilling echo my heart now is swelling. 

An answer I see in this sad lonely tear. 
Yes, strangers are there, with light laughter profaning 

The shrine where we worshipped with holiest love, 
Death's sickle has reaped — what for us is remaining — 

One earthly tie less, but an angel above. 

The dear home is gone — all its brightness o'ershaded, 

The sweet wreath of joy is now scattered and dead; 
The flow'r that was dearest for ever is faded, 

The heart's sweetest perfume for ever is fled. 
Farewell then, sweet home, past enjoyments recalling, 

'Neath grief we must bend with humility clown, 
Undimm'd in its lustre, though tears may be falling, 

The dead is a gem in Eternity's crown. 

Farewell, dearest home, thou sweet home I have 
cherish'd, 

The fireside so bright and the hearts once so gay ! 
Now mirth, like a blossom, by winter chill's perish'd, 

Bereft of the smiles of the sun's genial ray. 
A stranger's thou art, but Death's hand could not sever 

The true hnks of love round each soul twin'd so long; 
One more last farewell, dearest home, 'tis for ever — 

Now, brightest of visions ! thou'rt faded and gone. 



LONELY HOURS, 199 



TO 



Oh ! would that I could chase away 

Those thoughts that haunt me night and day— 

Oh ! would that I could be as gay 

As when first I knew thee. 
But doubts unbidden still will come. 
And thought on thought will wildly roarn, 
With phantoms brought from memory's tomb. 

By mocking Phantasy, 



Oh ! would to heaven I could control 
The love that's burning in my soul. 
But waves of grief still o'er me roll, 

Whose ceaseless tide I weep 
With many a lone and trembling tear, 
Still heavy with an unknown fear, 
And thou must ever be as dear 

Till in the grave I sleep. 



200 LONELY HOTJES, 



CALL ME NOT FAIR, 

Oh ! tell me not that I am fair 

Since I cannot be so to thee ; 
That I have virtues high and rare, 

All filled with noble quality. 
Ah ! do not breathe that flattering tone. 

Too sweet it is but all in vain ; 
I would not dream to dream alone, 

For ah ! thy heart I could not gain. 

Oh ! tell me not for me is love, 

Since I could ne'er be loved by thee, 
All other hearts I would not move, 

So deep is love's consistency. 
Then tell me not that I am fair, 

Breathe not that tone so vain and loud, 
A heart so filled with lone despair 

Must o'er pale beauty cast a shroud. 



LONELY HOURS. 201 



TO A STEICKEN ONE. 

Why is this weight of sadness 

Upon thy heart to-day, 
When now there's nought but gladness 

Amid this scene so gay. 
Thou say*st 'tis some foreboding 

Of coming ill to thee, 
A fear dark and coroding, 

Of wildest misery. 



Cheer up, sad heart, to-morrow 

May see thee blithe once more, 
Then chase away this sorrow, 

And let dark thought be o'er ! 
Alas ! how vain this weeping, 

Thy heart seems cold and dead, 
As tho' some converse keeping 

With hope that long hath fled, 



202 LONELY HOURS. 

Upon thy soul are stealing 

Gaunt shadows of the past, 
Whose sepulchre's revealing 

Dead joy too dear to last. 
Upon thy heart is pressing 

Pale memory's ghostly train, 
Whose long-departed blessing 

May never come again. 



Then cheer thee, friend, 'tis heaven 

That sends us pain and joy, 
To none of earth is given 

All bliss without alloy. 
So clouds come o'er our brightness, 

In warning and in love, 
To curb our spirit's lightness 

With thoughts of Him above. 



LONELY HOURS. 203 

SLANDER. 

And shall base slander "with its vicious art, 
And venom" d tongue, thus tear them heart from heart ? 
Shall those who loved with purity and trust 
Feel rankling deep foul jealousy's sharp thrust — 
The biting falsehood of an evil mind, 
That cank'ring worm that fair young truth would blind — 
That trails its fangs so lowly on the earth, 
That its own baseness could but give it birth? 
Alas ! the offspring of so black a thing, 
When it dare prattle, could not hide its sting, 
But darting forth its sharpest tooth to bite, 
With open jaws on innocence to light. 
Oh! black suspicion, in thy nature vile 
Is hid an arrow 'neath a friendly smile : 
ThouTt grasp the hand and bow obsequious still, 
While if a wish could do it, thine would kill. 
O ! may the tongue that wagg'd the slanderous lie, 
Fall palsied at its root, and withering, die — 
Or turn and sting itself, the envious heart 
Still festering sore with its own poisoned dart. 



A WISH. 

May hope and joy keep twining 
A wreath of love for thee, 

May blessings pure be shining 
In thy futurity. 



204 LONELY HOURS. 

A TREASURED GIFT. 

Thou gav'st to me a jewel rare, 

Yet said it was an humble gift, 
And oh ! it tends from every care 

My true and grateful soul to lift. 
Its lustre is so pure and bright, 

That still undhnm'd thro' life 'twill shine, 
While I repeat with fond delight, 

This gem, this costly gem is mine. 

This gem is in pure morals set, 

Its lustre is the light of truth, 
Virtues alas ! not often met 

In ardent souls and gifted youth. 
This gem by feeling is refined, 

And from high principle was wrought ; 
This golden treasure is combined, 

And purified by noble thought. 

Yes, thou'st bestowed a jewel rare, 

Whose lustre still through life will shine, 
To buy this gift oh ! none should dare, 

For all this great earth's richest mine. 
Most dearly prized this gem shall be, 

Only in death this gem I part — 
Ah ! what a treasured gift to me, 

Beloved one, is thy noble heart. 



LONELY HOUES. 

SONG. 

Oh ! lady, give to me that flower, 

Tho' dry and withered it may be, 
In mem'ry of the blissful hour 

When first I won love's smile from thee. 
You gathered it ^vith trembling hand, 

And placed it blooming in your breast ; 
I watched its loveliness expand, 

While thy young lips were to it pressed ; 
But when it faded, thou did'st throw 

Its tiny drooping stem aside ; 
To call it mine, thou could'st not know, 

Was all my longing, joy and pride. 

Oh ! lady, cast it not away, 

To me 'tis beautiful and bright ; 
For on its faded form the ray 

Of hope is shedding softest light. 
In every leaf I yet can trace 

Some blushing tell-tale look of love, 
While o'er its stem was bent thy face, 

Spotless and pure as heav'n above. 
Then, oh ! in mem'ry of that hour, 

Sweet lady, give it now to me ; 
For dearly sacred is that flower, 

Since it was worn, my love, by thee. 



206 LONELY HOURS. 

THE MISSING FOOTSTEP. 

How oft/ with low suspended breath, 

With fond impatient ear, 
I've listened for the well known step, 

That told when thou wert near ? 

How oft' with scarcely beating heart, 
I've hung on words of thine ? 

Ah ! could I think that we should part, 
"With agony all mine. 

How oft' I've listened for thy knock, 
That welcome joyous tone ? 

But ah ! the present seems to mock 
The happy time that's flown. 

How oft' with wildly throbbing pulse, 
Thou'st vow'd to love but me, 

When with a truth that's felt but once, 
I gave my heart to thee ? 

And still with low suspended breath, 

With sadly pallid cheeks, 
I list, but all is calm as death, 

No foot the stillness breaks. 



LONELY HOURS. 

All ! that quick tread no more shall come- 

I listen now in vain, 
My heart has lost its trusted home, 

To find it ne'er again. 

How sad -'twould be if that proud head, 

That open sunny brow, 
"Were mould'ring with the ghastly dead, 

On earth's cold pillow now. 

But worse than dead thou art to me, 

Thou'rt sullied with deceit ; 
If truth were thine, thy memory 

Would e'en in death be sweet. 

Alas ! the veil is rent aside, 

I know thee as thou art, 
And soon I'll learn with woman's pride, 

To tear thee from my heart. 



208 LONELY HOURS. 

HOPELESS LOVE. 

Long years I've sought thy love to gain, 

E'en now I seek it still, 
And yet I fear 'tis idle, vain, 

Thy heart I ne'er can fill. 
Sweet flower, in my soul thou'rt grown, 

Thy root cannot decay, 
With thee the seed of hope was sown, 

Which rip en' d on each day. 
I've set thee in a fertile soil, 

Where thou dost spring so bright, 
That fickle fortune cannot spoil, 

Or anguish ever blight. 

Thou'rt living in a faithful heart, 

Most deeply planted there, 
And with its life all twined thou art, 

'Mid joy's sweet tendrils fair. 
Then wilt thou shed thy fragrance round 

My longing welcome board, 
And let the fruit of hope abound, 

While we the treasure hoard ? 
Sweet flower, say then may I pull, 

And place thee 'neath love's dome ? 
My cup of bliss then would be full, 

If thou would'st share my home. 



LONELY HOU11S. '209 

Alas ! I know by that soft tear, 

My bride thou wilt not be ; 
Ah ! now there's nought but sadness here, 

Such joy was not for rne. 
Then die sweet hope, tho' through dark years 

Thou wert my trust and stay — 
I nurtured thee in love's wild tears, 

Sink now to lone decay. 
Young bud of bliss in coldness die, 

For me thou'lt never bloom j 
Oh ! light of joy why cam'st thou nigh — 

"Why leave behind this gloom? 



Thou weepest, love, weep not for me, 

Those tears are costly gems : 
I would not rend a sigh from thee, 

For richest diadems. 
Then shine on still, thou star of light, 

With lustre ne'er overcast, 
Forget the truth I've dared to plight, 

Nor deem my pain will last. 
Pulse of my heart, I'm sweetly blest, 

For me those tears were shed ! 
On this will memory fondly rest, 

Though other joys be dead. 
15 



210 LONELY HOLES. 

'Mid storms this thought shall be a calm, 

A light for this dark heart, 
'Twill heal its wound, 'twill be the balm 

To sooth its bitter smart. 
'Twill be in many a lonely hour, 

Companionship most dear, 
Tho' grief's sad clouds may o'er me lowV, 

There's sunshine in that tear. 
Ah ! yes, there's comfort in this thought. 

Though lonely now it seems, 
E'en tho', by others I'm forgot, 

On me shall glow thy beams. 



Around thou'lt shed thy influence rare, 

Above me thou wilt shine ; 
Approach thee, no, I would not dare, 

For rich Potosi's mine. 
I'd rather let my true heart break, 

In silence and in pain, 
Than bring one tear to that soft cheek, 

Than feel that tear again. 
That precious tear, so keenly feel, 

As in my soul 'twas felt, 
It sunk my wounded heart to heal, 

My harden'd pride to melt. 



LONELY HOURS. 211 

Crystalline drops, pure sacred dew, 

Yet thrill my lonely breast, 
Ah ! pitying heart, well, well I knew, 

Thou wert of all the best. 
Shine on, thou heavenly star of truth, 

Thy lustre ne'er overcast, 
Sleep on in blissful dreams of youth, 

I'll love thee to the last. 
Sweet flower, 'round my soul thou'rt twined, 

And ever thus shall dwell, 
My heart's rough soil thou hast refined — 

Star of my life, farewell ! 



HE IS BUT GONE BEFORE. 

Tread gently — anguish here doth dwell, 
The pain of hearts sore tried, 

And from their fond souls' deepest well, 
Springs sorrow's ceaseless tide. 

Kind heaven, dry the orphans' tear, 
And lift their thoughts on high ; 

As over now a father's bier, 
With bursting hearts they cry. 



212, LONELY HOURS.. 

How still lie lies ? how still and cold 
The grave, his bed of rest ! 

No more his loving arms enfold 
Fond children to his breast. 

That breast which felt another's pain, 
While tears for others fell; 

But death hath come, and orphans wail 
Their bitter last farewell. 

He was a father, friend to all, 
Bespected through his life, 

And heaven its own did homeward call, 
To save him from the strife. 

Tread gently — humbly — not with grief. 
Nor form with care bow'd down — 

His wearied soul has found relief, 
And gained a lasting crown. 

Ah ! it is joy to feel above, 

All meet to part no more ; 
Grieve not for earthly ties of love, 

He is but gone before. 



LONELY HOURS. 213 



BEAUTY AND GOODNESS. 

There is a beauty in thy face, beloved, 

In every gesture some new charm for me, 
A magic in each glance that thrills my soul, 

In which doth burn the holiest love for thee. 
I know that thou art beautiful, and grace 

Enhances e'en each trival act of thine ; 
But all thy loveliness I could not prize, 

If goodness, like the ivy, did not twine 
With loving arms around thy spotless name, 
In calm or tempest ever thus the same. 

I am no't cold, because I do not bow 

In admiration low to beauty's pow'r ; 
We know the opening bud is very fair, 

But turn in loathing from the canker' d flow'r. 
So beauty without soul or virtue, seems 

To me as nothing but the Dead Sea fruit ; 
Most fair to view, but ashes all within, 

And evil blemish sprung up with its root : 
And tho' it looks most temptingly and bright, 
It is a snare or type of sin's foul blight. 



214 LONELY HOUES. 

But oh ! I love, thee, for I know, that thou 

Art all that's gentle, all that's true and kind ; 
Thy spotless soul beams through thy deep dark eyes. 

Where every feeling is by grace refined. 
And then thy beauty adds a charm to all, 

A beauteous casket cov'ring purest gems ; 
Thy noble mind, a tree of budding worth, 

Held firmly up by radiant truth's fair stems., 
Do we not prize the azure vault above, 
As the sweet threshold of eternal love ? 

Then do not smile to know that beauty's beam 

Which I admire should pale before my sight ; 
When once we gaze upon the evening's star, 

We scarcely heed the star that shines less bright. 
So, loving one, the fairest of the fair, 

Prizing the best of all the good and high, 
There's not on earth the maid who doth possess 

A charm for me, save her for whom I sigh. 
At whose pure shrine e'en sages bend the knee, 
In homage true, my sweetest maid, for thee, 



LOXELY HOUltS. 



ERIN'S DAUGHTER. 



She stands oil the bridge,, the poor lone one., deserted, 
A pale starving babe clinging close to her breast ; 

She looked on the "waters that dashed on beneath her, 
And wished in its dark flood her sad heart had rest. 

A wife young and lovely, poor, friendless, forsaken, 
Cast homeless abroad on a pitiless world, 

For he who vow'd love and protection hath broken 
That oath, and to depths of low folly is hurled. 

Ah, now she remembers how madly he sought her, 
Tho' love in her bosom for him could not dwell, 

Alas ! the poor beauty, the belle of the village, 
Had ope'd to another her soul's deepest well. 

And he was a noble — alas ! oft'-told story — 
A proud earl's son was her idol and pride ; 

The maiden still worshipp'd the star in the distance, 
Ne'er deeming his lustre could beam by her side. 

So when she was sought by a lover more humble, 
And father and mother entreated her so, 

She gave him her hand, with a prayer that her Maker 
Would teach her heart's tide in the right course to 
flow. 



216 LONELY HOURS. 

One wedded year past, when the curse of the drunkard 
His footsteps attended, and marked out its prey ; 

And then all the peace that her duty created, 
Beneath its fierce furnace, was melted away. 

Their neat little cottage, so simple and homely, 
"Was 'reft of its beauty, its treasure, its all ; 

And poverty came, with its miseries, chilling 

The mad scorching breath of the drunkard's loud 
brawl. 

Oh ! then to her first love her constant heart bounded, 
And all the old fervour to memory clung ; 

But he was a noble — and even unwedded, 

She could not be his, tho' so lovely and young. 

So now on the bridge, all deserted, she's standing ; 

Oh, Charity ! could she thy kind smile allure, 
Come, sweet angel friend, to this weak stricken daughter, 

Envelope her well in thy mantle so pure. 

The cold winter's snow on her bare head is falling, 
The hard biting frost every muscle doth chill ; 

She looks all around, but no hand comes to save her, 
A sharp cry for pity the night air doth fill. 



LONELY HOURS. 217 

All shivering and faint; to the wet ground she's sinking; 

" Help, mercy, O help ! for my child's sake I pray/' 
But there is not a sound, except echo, repeating 

Those words of wild pleading, then dying away. 

To the dark water's brink she is crawling in madness, 
And peers in the depth of the white surging sea ; 

Despair lends a strength to each limb keenly aching j 
One plunge, and 'tis over, from suffering free. 

Mark now how she trembles, and listens in anguish, 
A cry from her infant doth thrill in her heart — 

His dear lips are murmuring a name sweetly sacred — 
'Tis " mother" — alas ! how from life can she part ! 

With mad, fond caresses her child gently pressing, 
She flies all in loathing the black wat'ry gra-ve ; 

An angel of mercy kind Heaven hath sent her, 
And"mother" — that fond name — had power to save. 

But now o'er her path deeper danger is nearing — 
Temptation, with hands brimming o'er full of gold, 

And he whom in girlhood she loved well but vainly, 
Doth come with a story of love to unfold. 



218 LONELY HOUUS. 

lie offers her wealth, silken robes, and rich splendour, 
A home full of peace, as a paradise fair ; 

Her heart, too, is pleading with sweet yearning fondness, 
She looks in his eyes, and reads deep passion there. 

Those eyes — oh, their fervour ! how beauteous their 
lustre ! 

That soft faltering voice in - her soul echo finds ; 
That sigh, deep and tender thrills all thro' her being ; 

She trembles — his strong arm around her now twines. 

She looked on her babe, with a mute pray'r to Heaven, 
Pale, starving, and homeless, weak, fragile, and cold; 

A fire, food and raiment, love gilding each pleasure, 
All mortal could wish, with thee, beautiful gold ! 

One moment of transport, then tearless and proudly, 
She spurns the lor'd tempter ; dishonour, e'en life, 

More welcome is death — all unsullied she's keeping 
Thou title of honour — the name of names — wife J 

Tho' hungry and cold, broken-hearted and weary, 
Tho' fervent love pleaded in wild burning flame, 

The grave for them both, with its rest cold and lonely, 
Was dearer to her than a kingdom with shame. 



LONELY HOURS. 219 

Through dark clouds of tempest one star still kept 
shining, 

Xo pow'r from her throne could sweet virtue beguile; 
In pride now I hail thee, dear child of my county 

Thou true faithful daughter of Erin's Green Isle. 



THOU AET NOT HERE. 

Oh ! I must hide these starting tears 

Amid this scene so gay, 
And I must smile with aching heart, 

For thou art far away. 
All is so changed, the dance once light, 

Now turns so sad and drear ; 
I feel alone in this glad throng, 

For ah ! thou art not here. 

^jo answering chord has music now, 

In this my weary heart, * 
And empty seems the^ voice of mirth, 

Since we are torn apart. 
But I must smile to hide my grief, 

And chase the starting tear ; 
I feel alone in this glad throng, 

For ah ! thou art not here, 



220 LONELY HOURS. 

FAREWELL, DEAR BOY. 

Farewell, dear boy — ah. ! thou wert young, 

To leave this world of ours, 
Where on thy path had ever sprung 

Affection's rarest flow'rs. 
But thou art gone to that bright land 

Where weary souls find rest, 
And thou has joined that chosen band — 

The spirits of the blest. 

Farewell, dear boy, thou'rt gone to meet 

A mother true and mild, 
Whose sainted spirit long'd to greet 

Her poor long-suffering child. 
And now, oh! now, thy pain is o'er, 

A holy peace thou'rt given, 
Thy bark of life sailed to the shore, 

That led thee safe to Heaven. 

Farewell, dear boy, we should not weep, 

Nor mourn thine early doom, 
For calm and gentle is thy sleep, 

Though in the lonely tomb. 
Oh ! at the threshold of thy home, 

Thou'lt greet us 'mid the blest, 
When he who sits upon the throne 

Shall call our souls to rest. 



LONELY HOURS. 221 

LINES ON A LOYELY GIRL. 
Oh ! how I love her face so fair, 

Though beauty fades away ; 
But noble virtue mingles there. 

And never shall decay. 
Oh! how I love to see her smile, 

With those her heart holds dear ; 
But better, though it doth beguile, 

I love her pensive tear. 
Oh! how I love to watch her eyes, 

"Where truth beams from the soul ; 
And then to mark the struggling sighs, 

That mirth would fain control. 
Let others look upon her face, 

And love its beauty rare; 
Let others mark her artless grace, 

And tell her she is fair ; 
But silently I worship on 

With fervent wild delight ; 
Eor since her truth around me shone, 

Hope rose all "full and bright. 
Her noble beauty, sweet to me. 

Is of her soul a part ; 
And that loved face shall ever be 

Engraved upon my heart. 



LONELY HOUES. 

I SPOKE UNKINDLY. 

I spoke unkindly, and to thee, 

Whom I have lov'd so well ; 
What weary grief this is to me, 

I would not, could not tell. 
A chill, dull feel is on my heart, 

A cold and death-like pain, 
As though a voice said, ye must part, 

And never meet again. 

I spoke unkindly, bitter thought, 

Could anger for thee live ? 
'Tis now with deep repentance fraught, 

Then wilt thou not forgive ? 
There is a pleader in thy breast — 

The voice of thy strong love, 
Within thy heart doth kindness rest, 

Forgiveness there to move. 

I spoke unkindly, for my soul 

Each shade of falsehood spurned ; 
I struggled, but could not controul, 

The scorn within that burned. 
But oh ! that falsehood was not thine, 

Then why should anger rise ? 
Thy truth through all did brightly shine,, 

That slander to despise. 



LONELY HOL T ES. r 223 

TO EMMA. 

Oh ! how I thank thee for the trust, 

That tore an unkind doubt apart ; 
The light that woke my friendship first. 

Still, still is shining in thy heart. 

I felt that truth's fair beams were thine, 
And shone to mark thee from the crowd ; 

The rays of such a light divine, 

Could ne'er be dimm'd by falsehood's cloud. 

For was it not thine own bright truth, 
That cast suspicion from thy breast ; 

To seek my friendship's steady worth, 
Upon its strength to fondly rest ? 

If e'er thy name was breathed by me — 
True, true as e'en the heaven above ; 

It was, dear Emma, praise of thee 
That ever taught my lips to move. 

All that I've said, my Emma dear, 

As with a sweet and thoughtful sound ; 

I'd let their echo without fear, 
Proclaim to all the world around. 



£24 LONELY HOTJES. 

If to these cheeks their mounts a blush, 
It is not guilt that makes them burn ; 

Indignant blood will sometimes rush 
When slander with contempt we spurn. 

I thank thee, Emma, for the trust, 

That rose so full ''mid falsehoods drear ; 

The light that woke my friendship first, 
Shall keep it through each changeful year. 



TO 



Have patience yet, bear with my faults, 
Though they be many now ; 

For 'neath the stroke of discontent, 
In weariness I bow. 

One kindly word could warm my heart. 

One frown of anger chill ; 
One smile of love upon thy lip, 

Could bend me to thy will. 

Oh ! let thy kindness chide alone, 
The faults that still are mine ; 

And soon thy tenderness will make 
Me worthy to be thine. 



LONELY HOURS. 



LINES ON A BEAUTIFUL INFANT. 

Sweet cherub child ! thou yet dost haunt 

My fancy with thy angel grace, 
Which o'er my heart a spell hath cast, 

I would not for the world efface. 
I saw thee in thy mother's arms, 

In smiling innocence and glee, 
Looking as tho- 5 kind Heav'n had sent — 

(That mortal eye e'en once might see) 
A type of God's own minstrels sweet, 

In thee, pure little babe, in thee. 

Methinks that round the throne above, 

All such as thou art, joyous sing, 
And that when Mercy looks on earth, 

'Tis such as thou, sweet babe, takes wing, 
And comes in pity for our state, 

To elevate the mortal mind, 
For all who gaze on thee must feel 

The seat of thought at once refined, 
As tho' the earthly heart had risen, 

And with HeavVs soul had closely twined. 
16 



226 LONELY HOUKS. 

Sweet human bud ! may thy bloom 

Fulfil the promise of this day, 
When every op'ning leaf reveals 

A purer tint, or brighter ray. 
And may thy stem be hope most fair, 

Eooted in faith drawn from on high, 
Thy tendrils gentle love to shed 

A fragrance pure on friendship's sigh — 
And when bow'd down by honoured years, 

To feel a fadeless bloom is nigh. 

Ah ! I could take thee to this breast, 

And shield thee from the world's cold strife, 
But thou'rt enshrined within love's dome, 

As the one idol of Hope's life. 
Then bloom still bright, thou snowdrop sweet, 

Smile on in budding beauty rare, 
Affection's sunshine o'er thee beam, 

Calling forth treasures true and fair, 
Unfolding gems that shall reward 

The hopes of fondest parents' care ! 



LONELY HOUKS. 227 



FRIENDSHIP'S WREATH AND CHAIN. 

Oh ! stay ere yet you rudely break 

This shortening little chain, 
The friendship of a heart like mine's 

Not easily rent in twain. 
Each link affection rivets there, 

Remains a sacred tie, 
That even coldness cannot loose 

Till every pulse shall die. 

Oh ! stay, ere yet you cast aside 

This wreath of friendship true, 
The flowers are still as bright and fresh 

As gather' d first by you. 
But if you're weary of their bloom, 

Then rend them all apart, 
And friendship's wreath and chain shall be 

Now cast from off my heart. 



228 LONELY HOURS. 



BEMEMBERED STILL. 

Could I believe that all thy love 
Was mine, and that it ne'er could rove, 
Think not that I would then regret 
The happy hour that first we met. 

Though time may fly, could I the less 
Prize one brief dream of happiness, 
Though it be sad when memory 
Awakes to dark reality? 

When faithful souls are torn apart, 
" Farewell" falls coldly on the heart, 
And sorrow's darkness must o'ercast 
A joy that shone too bright to last. 

When dwelling in some foreign clime, 
Where hope has been matured by time, 
A heavenly angel's mighty will 
Shall tell thee thou'rt remembered still. 



LONELY HOURS. 229 



< ALONE." 



Oft in the centre of a crowd, 

Where friends and pleasures meet me — 
That deep and mournful little word 

Amid that scene would greet me. 
" Alone/' ah ! mournful word, alone, 

Thou'rt fraught with pain and sadness ; 
There's something in thy dismal tone, 

That racks the brain to madness. 



Unto the wounded, broken heart, 

Thou'rt an aching void indeed — 
A sting shot by a venom'd dart — 

Once again that wound to bleed. 
Dear friends, we've loved 'mid trying hours, 

Some are dead and some have flown ; 
While others droop'd like transient flowers, 

Some remain alone, alone. 



230 LONELY HOUES. 

Oh! little word, a weight of care 

Hangs ever on thy weary sound, 
Though hope in struggling with despair, 

Sunk 'neath anguish all profound. 
Who, though crowds should gather round him, 

And should speak in friendship's tone, 
Would not give what may surround him, 

For one heart to call his own ? 



To love, and be beloved as well, 

One faithful heart possessing, 
It is a magic heavenly spell, 

A great and holy blessing. 
Alas ! to some, must memory's ring 

Pall sadly with that weary tone, 
And tell them 'tis a mournful thing 

To live, or love, alone, alone ! 



LONELY HOURS. 231 



INCONSTANCY.. 



Another oh ! another now, 

Has won thy heart from me ; 
Thou hast forgotten every vow 

That bound my soul to thee. 
What grief is mine, this deep despair 

Must snap each tender link, 
Such heavy agony to bear, 

My weary soul must sink. 



And yet to one sweet hope I cling, 

Which still can faintly shine ; 
It is when memory's blossoms spring 

Around thy heart to twine. 
Thou must within that garland see 

One everlasting flower, 
And feel it is my love for thee, 

In fadeless, deathless power. 



232 LONELY HOTJES. 

Ah ! how can I believe thee false, 

My truth is with thee yet ; 
And reason's seat shall first be lost, 

Ere I the past forget. 
Those sunny, sunny days of love, 

When life was bright and clear, 
As though sweet rays from heaven above 

Were ever shining near. 



Oh ! thou wert all the world to me, 

Mine idol and my pride ; 
This soul's too fond idolatry, 

Thou'st rudely cast aside. 
And thou hast severed love's strong tie, 

Grief chimes its parting knell, 
Oh ! would this broken heart could die, 

Thus bidding thee farewell. 



LOXELY HOUTtS 233 



THE LONELY ONE. 

I see them pass before me now, 

The lovely and the gay, 
And tho' they're beautiful and bright, 

I coldly turn away. 

All strive to "win me from my grief, 

But ah ! it is in vain ; 
Do what they will, they'll ne'er recall 

Joy's transient hours again. 

I cannot join them in the dance, 
Though music's charm beguiles ; 

I struggle well to hide my grief, 
In forced and pensive smiles. 

I turn to some sequestered spot, 

Where I may rest alone, 
And think of her who dwells on high, 

My beautiful, mine own. 

Her parting gift is wither'd now, 
'Twas once a radiant flow'r ; 

But like my heart 'tis broken too, 
By death's destroying power. 



234 LONELY HOURS. 

Its beauty's gone, still I can prize 
The blossom that she gave, 

Altho' the hand that gathered it, 
Now moulders in the grave. 

If e'en one joy for me remains, 
Where all is dark and drear ; 

It is to give her memory 
The tribute of a tear. 

Just like a shrub stripp'd of each leaf, 
Save one that braves the wind, 

That solace now to me is left, 
To soothe my tortured mind. 

And like that shrub, a blighted growth, 
Whose healthful sap hath flown ; 

I too must live bereft of hope, 
In sadness and alone. 

The essence of my life was she, 

My first, last, only love, 
And now my weary soul doth long, 

To fly to her above. 



LONELY HOURS. 



I'LL LOVE MY OWN LOVE STILL. 

How dead must be the soul that bids 

Young hearts to flee from love, 
To leave the eagle in the breast, 

And take away the dove ? 
I'll never heed such wisdom, no, 

Though prudes be frowning still, 
I do not mean to live alone, 

But love with all my will. 



If heaven would stop the streams that flow, 

From mountains pure and high, 
The vales would all be withered up, 

And fountains soon run dry. 
Who'd stay the one refreshing spring, 

That o'er our bosoms roll, 
The holy current from above, 

That purifies the soul ? 



236 LONELY HOURS. 

No, let me love though grief and woe, 

O'ertake young Cupid's reign, 
I'll sport amid his arrows yet, 

Nor deem that sport in vain. 
For love's an angel that the heart 

With heavenly joy can fill, 
Then smile or blame me as you wish, 

I'll love my own love still. 

"Tis very well when winter comes, 

To shiver, frown, and freeze, 
But when the summer's smiling yet, 

Who chills beneath her breeze ? 
And it is well when sorrow falls, 

To sigh, and moan, and weep — 
But when gay mirth is dancing light, 

Who would not take a peep ? 

'Tis very well when maidens staid, 

Old maids I mean to say, 
Who, bleaching hearts 'neath every sun, 

Have melted them away. 
Who weary of their fruitless search, 

For Hymen and his prize, 
Would preach and scoff at youthful love, 

And lift their righteous eyes. 



LONELY HOURS. 2S7 

'Tis very well, for ma's and pa's. 

Who settled and grown cold, 
Would give their daughter's hand and soul, 

For selfishness or gold. 
But ah ! the duteous girl should know 

She had a heart as well, 
And for the wealth of all the world, 

Should not that treasure sell. 



I would not for the world have sense, 

Since wisdom's such a bore, 
But with my brainless head Fll strive, 

From sordid thought to soar. 
I'll ne'er be wise, if wise it be, 

Young faith to crush or kill, 
So prudes may smile and sages frown, 

I'll love my own love still. 



238 LONELY HOURS. 

MEMORY'S CASKET. 

I love to think upon the past — 
To gaze on mem'ry's store ; 

See gems o'er which no stain is cast, 
Tho' worn in life no more. 

To mark those jewels shining yet, 
Undimm'cl by time, still fair, 

And feel within my heart are §et 
Those treasures once that were. 

Prom mem'ry's casket sacred rays 
Of love are beaming still ; 

Reflected from my childhood's days 
Are lights that yet can thrill. 

See this pale gem — a sweet pure pearl, 

'Tis very dear to me ; 
It is a golden-headed girl — 

Companion, friend, was she. 

And this fair diamond, sparkling bright, 
No wonder it should shine, 

'Tis he who, with a proud delight, 
First lover was of mine. 



LONELY HOURS. 239 

This sapphire — but I fear me now 
The thought of those young hours 

May cast a cloud upon my brow, 
For see it darkly lowers. 

The grave has closed on some most dear, 

O'er one more prized than all ; 
Then wonder not that many a tear 

Should from my eyelids fall. 

For 'tis a bitter grief to rend 

The ties once knotted fast — 
To lose a brother, father, friend — 

To look and weep the last. 

Death's shade was o'er one brother flung, 

Our household joy and pride ; 
Ere well to manhood he had sprung, 

He crossed death's cruel tide. 

See near these rubies, one bright stone 

Doth purest lustre shed; 
It rests thus sacredly alone — 

'lis memory of the dead. 

This amethyst so very pure, 

Of constancy can tell ; 
'Twas given by hope but to allure, 

Despair has chimed its knelL 



240 LONELY HOUfLS. 

This lovely bloodstone ! — ah, I weep, 

I cannot reckon more — 
Let secret thought her vigils keep 

Alone o'er memory's store. 

There's shade, there's brightnes in the past ; 

There's rain in sunshine too ; 
Some loved ones fell by sorrows blast, 

And others proved untrue. 

Now from those shadows I will turn, 

To hail my present lot, 
And greet the light that yet doth burn 

Around my peaceful cot. 

Sweet dreams of bygone hope and love — 
Young green leaves of the heart, 

Like stars set in the vault above. 
From earthly things apart ; 

Adieu ! now well-loved olden time, 

With joy and sorrow rife ; 
While there's a sky those stars will shine—- 

You'll live while lasts my life. 

I'll shut my casket, for 'tis best 
Not o'er those gems to roam ; 

I thank my God that I am blest 
With treasures ia my home. 



LONELY HOURS. 241 

ON RECEIVING THREE PRIMROSES, 
February 13, 1864. 



God bless thee, darling, who didst bring 

Unto thy mother these sweet flowers, 
Pure joy around her heart to fling, 

And brighten many painful hours. 
Three little Primroses, how dear 

The simple offring is to me — 
They smile my sickly couch to cheer, 

And turn my thoughts to love and thee. 



These tiny flow'rs how much of heart 

And soul He in their dewy leaves ! 
Love well assumed its gentle part, 

And thought thro' every petal breathes. 
My child, my thoughtful little boy, 

No time should from my heart efface 
These blossoms and thy kindly joy, 

Eor in these gifts thy love I trace. 
17 



242 LONELY HOURS. • 

God bless thee, darling, thus through life, 

May love's sweet off'ring still he thine! 
In thee may flowers of hope be rife, 

Around thy parent's heart to twine. 
These simple buds I still shall keep, 

E'en when they all shall withered be, 
For in my soul is burning deep 

A holy love, my child, for thee. 



May I be spared as now to share 

Thine every joy, or soothe thy tears ; 
That all a faithful mother's care 

May guide and guard thy tender years. 
God bless thee, darling, may the hand 

That did the gentle blossoms bring, 
Each wintry heart with joy expand, 

'Mid early promises of spring. 



LONELY HOURS. 243 

RETURN TO ME. 

Oil ! would that happy day were come, 

When we in joy should meet ; 
When thou would'st be in thine own home, 

Thy early friends to greet, 
"lis sad that absence thus should part 

True friendship's holy tie — 
That o'er the bosom's depth could dart 

A sun flash but to die. 

Oh ! how I wish to hear that voice, 

To watch thy gentle smiles ; 
Remembrance now can still rejoice, 

Though we be parted miles. 
Oh ! come then, dearest, back again, 

I'm very lonely now ; 
To none save thee I'd breathe the pain 

That's written on my brow. 

How mournfully my heart doth dwell 

Upon our thoughtless past ; 
Ere I was taught love's tide to quell, 

Lest it should flow too fast. 
But ah ! that heart is open still, 

And burning longs for thee ; 
Return its aching void to fill, 

And soothe its misery. 



244 LONELY HOURS. 



KIND WORDS. 

"When words of unkindness have wounded the ear, 
From lips that all honoured should be, 

Thy tone, sweet affection, hath power to cheer 
Lone hearts that would break but for thee. 

How prized is the smile that to friendship is giv'n, 

Whose fervency knows no decay 
From hard worldly selfishness hated of heaven, 

Whose truth gains from each passing day. 

How sweet, oh ! how sweet, when fond love can bestow 
Calm peace on the heart's seething brine, 

To soothe all its waters, and steady its flow, 
By mingling that love stream with thine. 

When dark clouds of sorrow in anguish you feel, 
And dull seems the pathway of life,, 

As sunshine must sympathy over you steal, 
Dispersing affliction and strife. 



LONELY HOURS. 345 

Oh ! long may each kind heart have power to shed, 

The bloom of its freshness around, 
A spark of affection by gratitude fed, 

With joy can the bosom abound. 

When our lot appears cast on a boisterous sea, 
In waves of wild doubtings to roam ; 

Love comes like a bright beacon burning in thee, 
To guide life's frail bark to its home. 

The rough storms of life o'er thee quickly must fly, 

If love's holy canopy's thine ; 
In gladness we think of the darkness gone by, 

When lights in the present still shine. 

Then come, gentle voice, for no longer' s life drear, 

When thou art illuming its sea ; 
Thy tones of true kindness have power to cheei 

Lone hearts that would break but for thee. 



246 LONELY HOUE.S. 

HAD WE NOT MET. 

Had we not met, love's gentle beam 

Had never warmed my youthful heart, 
It was thy kindness fanned the glow, 

And held it from the world apart. 
But when wild passion's dream is o'er, 

Thou'lt wake in calm reality ; 
Ah ! wilt thou cherish then this love, 

To bless our mild futurity ? 

Had we not met, the thrilling voice 

Of genius ne'er had roused my soul ; 
The fervent beauties of thy mind 

Entranced me with a strange control. 
My thirsty brain drank but one drop 

Of genius on thy lip which lay, 
Thou could'st not miss it, yet it gave 

My thoughts in poetry their sway. 

Had we not met, the purest joy 

To my dull life, had ne'er been known ; 
The happy brightness of thy love 

Did peace within my breast enthrone, 
When first I saw thee — mem'ry dwells 

In gladness on that moment yet, 
For then was born, each radiant hope, 

That ne'er could live, had we not met. 



LONELY HOURS. 247 

A FRIEND'S REMONSTRANCE. 

Thou'rt changed — and yet she loves thee so 

With fervent joy and pride, 
It is to late to cnrb the flow, 

Of passion's swelling tide. 
If true her love thou did'st not seek, 

Why wert thou always near, 
When to her hopeful spirit meek 

Thou wert so fondly dear ? 

Why did'st thou use such cunning wiles 

Her young mind to inthrall ? 
Oh ! what are words — but looks and smiles, 

And tones ? these, these are all. 
Friends blame thee — yet with constant will 

She clings unto thy truth ; 
Fair hope in bliss is floating still 

Amid the dreams of youth. 

And must the wakming come at last, 

Her first sweet dream be o'er, 
Bright visions sink beneath the blast, 

To rear their heads no more ? 
Yet, how she dings unto thy love! 

'Tis of her life a part ; 
If from her soul thou woukPst it move, 

Thou'lt break her gentle heart. 



248 LONELY HOURS. 

Go tell that simple violet there, 

Beneath its modest shade, 
It must not love the summer air, 

And mark how soon 'twill fade. 
The violet loves the golden sun, 

And opens 'neath his ray — 
But when his brilliant course is run, 

In coldness droops away. 

The cold night shadows nurse it not, 

Nor rays upon it throw — 
Is it from ice the warmth is brought, 

That forces it to grow ? 
Oh ! trifler, pause, thou yet may'st feel 

The grief that she must bear; 
The wound, no time can ever heal, 

The probe of sharp despair. 

Thou bid'st her to forget thee now, 

And still be light and gay, 
While thorns are pressing on her brow — 

Pause, trifler — list, I pray. 
Go tell that trampled violet there, 

It must not droop its head, 
That still each petal must be fair, 

Altho' its life hath fled. 



LONELY HOUltS. 249 

DID I NOT MISS THEE ? 

Did I not miss thy gentle voice, 

When others breath' d the welcome home, 
And loving hearts did so rejoice, 

In greeting her who long did roam ? 
Ah, how I strained my listening ear 

For words that echoed in my brain ! 
They're silent now ; those tones so dear 

Can ne'er be heard on earth again. 

Did I not miss thy fond embrace, 

When other arms around me twined, 
Or weep to see thy vacant place, 

To lose each look so softly kind ? 
Oh ! how my longing heart would ache 

To press those lips now white and cold ! 
The merest trifle, for thy sake, 

More precious seemed than gems or gold. 

Did I not miss thee from the throng 

Of eager faces crowding round ? 
And when another sang thy song, 

O how my heart shrank from the sound I 
'Tis scarce one little year since last 

Thy loving hands did clasp mine own ; 
That time and thee are with the past — 

'Tis memory that remains alone. 



250 LONELY HOURS. 

Ah, yes, I miss'd thee, and the tears 

Of anguish from my full heart fell ; 
Still wild regret my bosom sears 

With pain no lips can ever tell. 
True, others may forget thee soon, 

And hope again assert her part ; 
But life's morn passing into noon 

Still leaves thine image in my heart. 

O 'tis a holy joy to meet 

Old friends and fond, of years gone by, 
To mark love's smile still fresh and sweet, 

To note truth glancing in the eye ; 
To know that absence could not change 

The hearts of those belov'd of yore, 
But sad to feel in mem'ry's range, 

Earth's dearest link, we'll meet no more. 



LONELY HOURS. 251 



STANZAS. 



I ne'er have seen thee, lovely spot. 

Save in imagination's dream, 
Whose colours are so fair and sweet, 

A little paradise you seem. 
I'm. borne on fancy's airy wing, 

To gaze upon thy realm of light ; 
But pen like mine's too poor to trace 

The golden riches of that sight. 



I feel thou'rt lovely, yet 'tis not 

Thy beauty makes thee dear to me, 
"lis not because thy purple heath, 

And mossy shades are fair to see. 
Nor yet because thy verdant turf, 

White daisies gayly spangle o'er ; 
But ah ! it is that hope and love, 

On truth's sweet pinions there can soar. 



252 LONELY HOURS. 

HASTE, BRIGHT DAY. 

Haste, haste, bright day of sunny joy, 

Undimm'd by thought of pain ; 
Come, blissful hour, that loving hearts 

May fondly meet again. 
Thou canst dispel the darkened shades 

Of absence from each breast, 
And lull the weary longing soul 

In trusting peace to rest. 

Oh ! haste on pinions light as air, 

Why dost thou tarry yet ? 
I bless the hour, that evening tells 

Each golden sun to set. 
For then I know the coming morn 

Will bring us nearer still ; 
Thus moments glide while pensive thought 

The vacant space would fill. 

In happiness all bright and clear, 

Oh ! come long looked for day, 
And stop those anxious burning fears, 

That grieve me with their sway. 
Then haste, oh haste, with lightning speed, 

Undimnr'd by thought of pain, 
So that our loving truthful hearts 

May fondly meet again. 



LONELY HOURS. 253 



TO ■ 



We met but once, as strangers met, 

Amid the joyous dance, 
And canst thou think that I forget 

The magic of thy glance ? 

No, still thou art as near to me, 

As in that brilliant place, 
The hand of gentle memory 

Each smile of thine can trace. 

Once more methinks thou'rt by my side, 

When fondly I recall 
Thy form, so graced with queenly pride, 

As in that festive hall. 

Gay memory's bright and Howry chain, 

With richest joys replete, 
Shall bind my heart till once again, 

In festive halls we meet. 



254 LONELY HOURS. 

HE'S GONE. 

He's gone, he's gone, the struggle's o'er, 

And I may freely weep, 
Elow, choking tears, burst from your source, 

To give my heart relief. 
I would not let a cloud o'ercast 

His open sunny brow, 
And little, little does he think 

These tears are falling now. 

He's gone, he's gone, a dreary void 

This great earth seems to be, 
All save the space that holds his form, 

Yet that's the world to me. 
Oh ! I was tortured as I smiled, 

"With anguish in my heart, 
Yet bore it well, nor did not see 

The tears that fain would start. 

He's gone, he's gone, and never guess'd 

The struggle of my soul, 
Nor deemed he that a smile could be 

A rein of self-control. 
I would not, could not let a cloud 

O'ercast his sunny brow, 
And little, little does he think, 

Those tears are falling now. 



LONELY HOURS. 255 

STANZAS. 
Long may thy heart be happy, 

Though grief o'ershadows mine ; 
'Twould gladly hold each sorrow, 

To spare one pang to thine. 
Oh ! heavy is the anguish, 

My weary heart doth fill ; 
But though 'tis almost broken, 

It loves thee, dearest, still. 
One wish, though it be madness, 

Upon my heart doth lie, 
'Mid grief and pain it lingers — 

To see thee and to die. 
Oh ! if that wish were granted, 

In death Fd sweetly rest, 
For in thy tones of kindness 

I'd feel that I was blest. 
Ah ! when will life be over ? 

Fm sad and weary now ; 
When life from love is parted, 

It 'neath despair must bow. 
But I will bear each sorrow, 

With which my heart doth fill— 
What though it break in silence, 

If thou art happy still. 



256 LONELY HOURS. 



A VALENTINE. 



Oh ! say not, dear lady, that friendship could lend 

To the soul half the rapture of love ; 
Though friendship is sweet, yet on earth it is born, 

While young Cupid's a god from above. 

Oh ! bid not, sweet lady, cold friendship to live 

In a heart beating warmly as mine ; 
But tell the dear hope, now faint and so dim, 

On my pathway more brightly to shine. 

Oh ! chide not, sweet lady, when friendship must die, 

Near a being so fair as thou art ; 
Each ray of thy beauty must kindle love's fire, 

When thy grace can such rapture impart. 

Then say not, sweet lady, 'tis friendship alone, 

Which truly to me thou hast given, 
Eeturn warmer feelings I cherish for thee, 

Eor love is the ether of Heaven. 



LONELY HOURS. 257 

LOVE'S SINCERITY. 

How -weak, how empty words must seem, 

To show the depth of all the heart ! 
Why were not angels sent from heaven, 

Love's language truly to impart ? 
Thou wilt receive this humble verse, 

"Which fain would paint my thoughts of thee ; 
Alas ! these lines but poorly tell 

The depth of love's sincerity. 

If I had Byron's magic power 

To write his sweet impassioned lines, 
Entranc'd thou'dst linger o'er the page, 

Where high wrought talent brightly shinss. 
Yet think not that I envy his 

High fame's great immortality ; 
Ah ! no, the world may worship him, 

My joy is in a smile from thee. 

If genius could inspire my pen, 

Of thee alone 'twould ever write ; 
Thy noble heart and mind the theme, 

To dwell on sweetly clay and night. 
Fair truth dictates these simple words, 

Which fain would paint my thoughts of thee ; 
But ah ! their language poorly tells 

The depth of love's sincerity. 
18 



258 LONELY HOURS, 



HINTS. 



Oh ! thoughtless -world, look, look beneath 

The surface of thy human tide, 
Clutch not those shining bubbles now, 

Which o'er that silvery surface glide. 
For thus upon the stream of life, 

Doth seeming friendship hold its sway ; 
But clutch those bubbles and they burst ; 

So grief will chase false hearts away. 

Oh ! thoughtless world, thou'lt never read 

The pages of the heart and mind, 
While gathering but the dross of gain, 

And passing treasures more refined. 
But ah ! if thought could look beneath 

The surface of the human race ; 
Then gentle sympathy would cast, 

A holy influence o'er life's space. 



LONELY HOURS. 259 



MANY SOUGHT TO WIN MY LOYE. 

Yes, many sought to win my love. 
They sought it, but in vain ; 

My wayward heart could only treat 
Their passion with disdain. 

At times in light yet harmless mirth, 
Each fervent prayer I'd spurn, 

But though I smiled to mark their grief, 
Eemorse my soul would burn. 

I laughed in list'ning to their vow, 

That I was madly dear, 
But then in pity oft would shed, 

A sad and grateful tear. 

At last one came who taught my soul 
The strength of its own love, 

Whose every word, whose slightest look, 
My trembling heart could move. 



260 LONELY HOUKS. 

So now the past, I'd fain recall, 
That I might soothe each pain ; 

I wonder that I dared to treat 
Those feelings with disdain. 

Alas ! such thoughtless words and deeds 
Have broken many a heart. 

And all their cherishM hope and joy 
Have rudely torn apart. 

What tho 5 their vows I should reject ? 

'Twere easy to be kind ; 
For consolation is a balm 

That soothes a troubled mind. 

I know they must have deemed me cold, 
But could they see me now, 

They'd mark the sunshine of pure love, 
Stamped brightly on my brow. 



LONELY HOURS. 261 



THE PAST. 



Thoughts of the past, why haunt me still ? 

Oh ! let my weary soul find rest ; 
Your shadowy visions deeply thrill 

The chords of sorrow in my breast. 
Those pure short dreams of love refined, 

Reality has torn away ; 
The leaves of hope that round me twined. 

Have sadly fallen to decay. 
Why torture thus my broken heart, 

Whose every blissful throb is dead. 
Where anguish with its poisoned dart 

Festers at thoughts of joy that's fled ? 
Oh ! memory, snap thy galling chain, 

Each link's an iron weight of care ; 
Thy maddening bonds still rack my brain 

With burning fetters of despair ! 
Away, sweet thoughts of days gone by, 

Whose treasured brightness could not last ; 
Forget, poor heart, each loving tie, 

That still would bind thee to the past. 



262 LONELY HOURS. 



THE SHADE OP SADNESS, 

All ! why this shade of sadness 

Upon thy manly brow j 
To thee time will bring gladness 

And brighter days than now. 
Dear friends are gath'ring ronnd thee, 

With hearts so warm and true, 
And fortune's hand is giving 

Bright favours sweet and new. 

Ah ! why art thou not happy ? 

When all is fair and bright ; 
And love's own star is shedding 

For thee its truthful light ? 
Then chase away this sadness 

Erom off thy manly brow, 
To thee time will bring gladness, 

And brighter days than now. 



LONELY HOURS. 2(33 

STANZAS. 

Again false pride must ne'er be known. 

Between my heart and thine ; 
Pure confidence and peace alone 

Within our souls shall twine. 
Oh ! I will feel a trust in thee, 

Unknown, unfelt before; 
Then let all anger from us flee, 

This strife shall come no more. 
I cannot tell what burning pain 

My wayward heart has felt ; 
I seemed all kindness to disdain, 

Yet could to thee have knelt. 
I could not ever bear one shade 

Of sorrow on thy brow ; 
Sharp was the pang that strife hath made, 

Is it forgotten now ? 
Oh ! could such words of anger move 

Again thy youthful lips ; 
Or has my coldness changed thy love, 

As frost a blossom nips ? 
No, no, I feel a trust in thee, 

I ne'er have felt before ; 
Then let all anger from us flee, 

This strife shall come no more. 



26 i LONELY HOUES, 

MY LAST FAREWELL, 
I breathed no word at parting thee, 

Nor e'en one tear of anguish shed ; 
Though in the space of memory 

The treasured flowers of joy were dead. 
Oh ! would they'd never sprung to life, 

Since now they're nipp'd by cold despair I 
From out my soul must reason's strife 

Each root of hope most rudely tear. 

'Tis well, 'tis well the parting's o'er, 

Ah ! would alas! we ne'er had met — 
For though I feel we'll meet no more, 

I will not, cannot thee forget. 
When once the slumb'ring heart awakes, 

It still must live in joy or pain ; 
'Till memory her throne forsakes, 

In peace it cannot sleep again. 

One breath of time swept o'er each brow., 

When thou a stranger wert to me ; 
And yet life's current pauses now 

Upon the rock of destiny. 
But reason's stern, unbending dart, 

Each throb of feeling strives to quell, 
And hope lies withered in my heart, 

While thus I breathe farewell, farewell ! 



LOJTELY HOURS. 265 



TO A FBIEND. 



In days gone by, when life seemed fraught 
With all that could have made life blessed- 

When hope gave rise to every thought, 
And fortune's wiles our hearts caress'd — 
We two were happy friends. 

And when as years rolled calmly on, 
Sweet friendship kept its sacred sway, 

We found the light that o'er us shone, 

Was kindled by a heavenly ray — 

To make us sterling friends. 

And now while time's unwearied wings 
Can waft thee all that makes life dear — 

To me it but dark sorrow brings, 

And hope is hid 'neath many a tear — - 
Yet we are steadfast friends. 

I fondly trust when age has placed 

Its icy hand upon each brow ; 
That there shall never be effaced 

One thought which memory treasures now — 
While we are thoughtful friends. 



266 LONELY HOURS. 

I've seen a little daisy wild, 
Beside a gentle violet grow ; 

Methought they on each other smiled, 
Or wept in sympathetic glow — 
Thus we were clinging friends. 



I've seen the daisy trampled down 
By careless footsteps passing there ; 

Rude strangers who on it could frown, 

And yet the tender violet spare — 

Still we were faithful friends. 



The violet then would spread its leaves 
In shelter o'er the daisy's head — 

Ah ! when such truth a bosom heaves, 
A throb from heaven must have fled— 
To make a well tried friend. 



LONELY HOLES. 267 



THOU 'RT MINE. 



Years have rolled by since first we met, 

Mingled with happiness and pain ; 
And now as faithful memory turns 
To read the faded past again, 

More bright and pure thy virtues shine, 
And I still feel thou'rt mine, thou'rt mine. 



I knew thy love could never be 

Like that which but in fancy beams, 
Whose sweet though wayward rays can paint 
In rosy tints bright fairy dreams, 
To dazzle, not to keep the heart — 
Those golden visions soon depart. 

Years have rolled by, but they were years 

That added fervor to thy love ; 
As soon its fulness could I doubt 
As doubt the truth of heaven above ! 
No, no, undimm'd thy faith shall shine, 
I know and feel thou'rt mine, thou'rt mine. 



268 LONELY HOUR'S. 

INVITATIONS TO A BALL. 

Whom shall we ask, my love, just take 

Your pen and mark the names, — 
So now the first upon the list 

Must be that dear Sir James. 
You know, my child, at Mrs. Green's, 

He danced with you, love, twice, — 
And oh ! they say he's very rich, 

His mansion too's so nice. 
Ah ! yes, we'll ask the darling man, 

Whom you must strive to catch ; 
What matter though he's old and squints, 

He's such a brilliant match. 

And now the next write Colonel Boe, 

They say he's poor, but then 
He is the fashion, so must rank 

Amongst superior men. 
And then the beautiful Miss Brown — 

What ! — tears are in your eyes ! 
You say 'tis best to leave her out, 

Ah ! well — it might be wise. 
So now there's charming Mrs. Blake — 

Oh ! I forgot that she 
Keeps no sweet country house, and so 

Invited cannot be. 



LONELY HOURS. 269 

If we could get great Lord O'Shea, 

How grand would be our ball ! 
His Lordship — ha ! it sounds so well, 

On him your Pa shall call. 
And if his Lordship should refuse, 

Why then not one need know 
That ever he was asked, my love, 

So good Papa must go. 
Put down the Misses Morrison, 

They sing and play so well ; 
They're lady-like and can amuse, 

"While neither is a belle. 



The Blacks were once our friends, but now > 

Although no slur is cast 
Upon their name, they're smashed and poor, 

We'll cut them then at last. 
There's Countess Iwonttell, but ah ! 

Such strange thiugs people say — 
Some shake their heads and hint, alas ! 

That she has been too gay. 
But then she is a Countess, love, 

And titles are the rage, 
For style has taken rapid strides 

Within this stylish age. 



270 LONELY HOURS. 

We must invite that vulgar wretch, 

Old Mr. Fox, the bear; 
He's clever, and — he knew us once — 

So we'll be civil there. 
Besides, he's asked to Lady May's, 

And we must do the same ; 
He gives fine dinners, keeps good wine, 

So, love, put down his name. 
The Cookes, the Butlers ask — they're rich- 

But oh ! sweet Lord O'Shea ; 
Now, only think, if he'll but come, 

What will our neighbours say ? 



cc Oh ! foolish, empty-headed thing," 

Thus will your neighbours say, 
" Aim not at those above your reach, 

Deal kindness where you may. 
Oh ! fool, to spurn an honest heart, 

Because 'twas covered o'er 
With rags of poverty, which hid 

A mine of good, and bore 
The holy stamp of nature's hand, 

Prom all dishonour free ; 
Go, pray thou'lt be, ere life shall close 

But half as good as he." 



LONELY HOLES 271 

FAITH. 

Oh ! life is most lovely,, when faith is reposing 

All tranquilly sweet o'er its space ; 
With trust in each bosom, fresh beauties disclosing 

Of brotherhood, friendship and grace. 

"If life is a cheat/' says young Hope, " what is lasting ? 

Beauty's then but a dream ;" 
But vanity's sun, beneath which we are basking, 

Makes mortals not all that they seem. 

Faith's lamp in our bosom shouldbrightlykeepbeaming, 

So trim it with peace gently still, 
Though distant the hope we most prize, there are 
gleaming 

Those near, we can have if we will. 

"While germs of sweet faith all our doubts are adjusting. 

To blossom life's space to the end ; 
Oh ! rather than wrong a true heart by not trusting, 

Thy foe ever treat as a friend. 

Then stay, gentle faith, while life's pleasures we're 
drinking, 

No doubts turn the draught into gall ; 
While friendship and peace now together are linking, 

We'll cull the ripe fruits ere they fall. 



27 -2 LONELY HOURS. 

Oh ! faith,lovely faith, thou'stawide world of meaning — 

How holy the way thou hast trod ! 
The pathway to Heaven to which we were nearing, 

True faith, if we have in our God. 



AT LEAST MY ERIEND FORGET ME NOT. 

At least my friend forget me not, 

If fervent love may not remain ; 
If too aspiring be the thought, 

That I may still thy love retain. 
Would' st thou secure my plighted vow, 

While yet my hopes are insecure ? 
Then go nor press me further now, 

And woman's hopes will still endure, 

That thou may'st know no grief nor care, 
Shall be the burden of my pray'r. 
Oh ! there is many a feeling deep, 

That sadly wastes young life away — 
Which may not sigh, which dares not weep, 

But to the shallow world seems gay. 
Yet till my heart no more can beat, 

Its purest love shall ''round thee twine ; 
But oh ! too fondly, madly sweet, 

Would be the joy of being thine — 
To me such bliss must not be given, 
'Twould make this world a part of heaven. 



LONELY HOURS. 273 



SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF OUR WEDDING 
DAY. 

Six years are gone — I think upon the hour 
When orange blossoms trembled on my brow, 

And love seemed breathing forth from each sweet flower, 
And hope hung o'er me many a fadeless bough. 

Fadeless, ah! yes/ for through the lapse of years, 

. Verdant, unchanged I see them blooming still, 

Love's radiant light through every cloud appears, 

The home and heart with peaceful joy to fill. 

Dear little tie, thou holy wedding ring, 
While thus I gaze upon thy lustre fair, 

With thankful love unto one thought I cling, 
That still he loves who placed the emblem there. 

Six years are gone, oh ! God, may time thus add 
Unto his life, all, all that life holds dear, 

With aims and hopes that make his soul most glad, 
Bearing the fruit of many a useful year. 
19 



274 LONELY HOUES, 



THE LOVED AND LOST. 

There is a memory to the heart that clings 

"Where'er we go, through every changeful scene, 

And from the holiest depth of soul it springs, 
Transporting us to days that once have been, 

To happy days, ere life's young bark was toss'd 

In grief with memory of the loved and lost. 

Oh ! loved and lost, who has not felt the spell 
Those little words throw o'er the mourning heart ? 

Who has not heard the weary funeral knell 

And felt each toll through brain and pulses dart, 

With pain that darkens all the future o'er, 

As if the lost were lost for ever more. 

Oh ! sacred feeling when we draw the veil 
From off the face of bye-gone sunny years, 

To see each feature of our life again, 

Some still are smiling, others bathed in tears, 

While one unfading light has purely crossed 

O'er the sweet memory of the loved and lost. 



LONELY HOURS. 273 

WITH ME STILL. 

Though distant, thou art near me yet, 

Dwelling in memory ; 
No thought dare enter that sweet home, 

That was not all of thee. 
Dreams, happy dreams, by day and night 

My faithful bosom fill, 
And though we're sadly parted now, 

Thou'rt fondly with me still. 

In crowded halls I can but feel 

That thou alone art near, 
The music of thy gentle voice 

The only sound I hear. 
When wandering in the lonely shade, 

Or by some noisy rill. 
Its murmuring waters seem to say, 

That thou art with me still. 

Whatever I see, where'er I go, 

Though sad or gay the scene, 
No spirit of wild mirth or chance 

My thoughts from thee can weau, 
For like the stream that seaward runs 

By heaven's directing will, 
Each instinct of my being proves 

That thou art with me still. 



276 LONELY HOURS. 

As gladly as a vacant eye 

Eeceives its wondrous sight, 
My soul expanded gratefully, 

'Neath faithful love's pure light. 
The day's unclouded beam must give 

That eye a holy thrill, 
So rapture tells my trembling heart, 

Thou'rt fondly with me still. 

Oh ! not for all earth's brightest gems, 

Or treasures of the sea 
Would I e'er forfeit that sweet joy, 

The bliss of loving thee ! 
For that glad eye as soon could wish 

Its space should darkness fill, 
As this true heart to break the bond 

That finds thee with me still. 



A WISH. 

If heaven would hear a lover's prayer, 
Breathed fondly from the fervent soul, 

My prayer for thee would fondly trace 
The brightest lot upon life's scroll. 



LONELY HOXJES. 277 

I'd pray that angel hands might pour 

Their choicest blessings over thee, 
With folded promises of joy 

To open in tranquillity. 
Thy bliss would be so great, that doubt 

Must rise if it could be of earth, 
Till thou'dst believe that Paradise 

Had given to each delight its birth. 
Mirth's golden hours would pass o'er thee 

Without one pain, without one fear, 
While in the heaven of living love 

The stars would ever bright appear ; 
Whose bounteous light should gild thy path, 

To shed sweet peace along each way. 
Till happiness be so complete, 

That life will seem one summer day. 
Thou should' st not ever know one care 

While such rare bliss for thee should shine— 
Oh ! thou'dst be bless' d, ay, bless'd indeed, 

If Heaven would hear this prayer of mine. 



SONG. 



Oh ! hush, let me list to that bird sweetly singing, 
There's something so sad in its strain, 

Each pulse of my heart in sympathy is thrilling 
With more of sweet pleasure than pain. 



278 XONELY HOURS. 

Oh sing, little friend, though it be but in sadness, 

And fill with soft music the air ; 
Or come to my heart and Fll hail thee with gladness, 

And tend thee, sweet songster, with care — 
Oh ! come, lovely bird, wilt thou come ? 

Oh ! no, for unfettered you still must be greeting 

"With rapture each flowret and tree, 
Fresh blossoms and pleasures you ever keep meetings 

In sunshine still joyous and free. 
And i" would not have thee a captive repining, 

Nor keep thy light wing from the air ; 
Then fly, gentle bird, and may gladness keep shining., 

Lest harm fall a plumage so fair — 
Oh ! fly, lovely bird, thou may'st fly. 

How oft like that bird, would a sweet voice keep lulling 

My foolish young griefs all to rest — 
Till rosy in slumber and hushed by that humming, 

I sank on my own mother's breast. 
Then list, for in fancy those notes still are ringing, 

In cadence both thrilling and wild ; 
While over my heart all in freshness 'tis bringing 

The voice that I heard when a child — 
Oh hush, let me list, let me list. 



LONELY HOURS. 279 

I THINK OF THEE, MY BEOTHEE. 

I think of thee, my brother, 

Through the bright and busy day, 
When others seek for pleasure, 

And each face looks fresh and gay ; 
When faithless hearts forgetting, 

They shall never meet thee more, 
Can seek the magic circle 

Of the dance and waxen floor ; 
And smile so false and hollow, 

Iu the brilliant festive room, 
While I am thinking only, 

Of thy sad and lonely tomb. 

I think of thee, my brother, 

Through the long and silent night, 
When wintry winds are howling, 

Or the summer moon shines bright. 
And when her beams are falling 

On the flowers that o'er thee wave, 
I bless her for the vigils 

That she keepeth o'er thy grave. 
And when sweet stars are beaming 

From their azure home above, 
I deem they're eyes of angels, 

That are watching there in love. 



280 LONELY HOURS* 

TO FANNY. 

"Why did that heavy tear-drop start ? 
Why did the blood rush from thy heart, 
As mantling red upon thy cheek, 
Thou didst so proudly, sternly speak ? 

Forgive me now, for I was glad 

To mark the cause that made thee sad ; 

Forgive me that I could rejoice 

To hear thy sad and falt'ring voice. 

I could do nought but smile to see 
I had such power over thee ; 
That tear, that little silent tear, 
So plainly told that I was dear. 

Yet oh ! believe when thou wert sad, 
It was thy truth that made me glad ; 
I smiled to see thy faithful heart 
Was wounded by a jealous dart. 

Thou wert my friend when joy was near, 
And still my friend in sorrow drear ; 
Then Fanny, thou shalt ever be 
The dearest, fondest still to me. 



LONELY HOURS. 281 



I THINK OP THEE. 

I think of thee — I think of thee, 

When morning beams on high ; 
I think of thee — I think of thee, 

Until night veils the sky ; 
And then in slumber sweet and mild, 

Thy well loved form I see, 
Again with morning's light I wake, 

To think alone of thee, 

I think of thee — I think of thee, 

When midst the bright and gay ; 
I think of thee — I think of thee, 

When near or far away. 
And when I shed some lonely tear, 

Thine is my memory ; 
Happy or sad, morn, noon, or night, 

I think alone of thee. 



282 LONELY HOURS. 

HAVE WE NOT KNOWN EACH OTHER 
LONG? 

Have we not known each other long, 

And why then should we part ? 
In sorrow's hour have I not proved 

The kindness of thine heart ? 
Could we forget the time that's flown, 

Nor on its brightness dwell ? 
Ah ! then we might not dread to hear 

The saddening word, farewell ! 

Have we not known each other long, 

In sunshine and in shade ? 
Then can we ever snap the link 

Our confidence hath made ? 
Ah ! no, the voice of seeming friends 

Unheeded still shall be ; 
And though their scornful glance I meet, 

I'll trust alone in thee. 

Have we not known each other long. 

And wandered side by side ? 
And little deemed that envy's wave 

Had caught us 'neath its tide. 
But falsehood's hand could never tear 

Pure truth from out the heart ; 
Long have we known each other now, 

And will not, shall not part. 



LONELY HOURS. 283 



ANABELLE. 



Oh ! sweet Anabelle, how my fancy can flow 
In brightest of colors an image to trace, 

Reflecting before me young beauties that glow 
With rays of heart-lustre to beam on thy face. 

My muse often pictures a sweet graceful girl. 
Half sportive, half sad, yet so sylph-lite to me, 

With ripe ruby lips, and teeth whiter than pearl, 
Creating sweet visions of fairies and glee. 

I deem her a maiden bright, blooming and young, 
With skin that could rival the lily most fair, 

And always I think there are daisies among 
The soft simple braids of her dark silken hair. 

Again I have pictured her tearful and sad, 

With deep earnest thought on her placid young brow, 

Then smiles bursting forth in a rapture so glad, 
All hearts to the charm of her magic must bow. 

I deem her surrounded by friendship and love, 
Which call forth the germ of sweet thoughts ever new; 

But ah ! perchance fancy doth treacherous prove — 
Then, maiden, say thott if the picture be true. 



£84 LONELY HOURS. 



MY HOME. 



Magic words, most sweet and tender, 

Soothers of each pain and fear, 
With the happy fireside pleasures, 

These are mine when thou art near : 
Thou from whom the world's hard tempests 

Could not tear my heart away, 
While around thee clingeth ever 

Love that knoweth no decay — 
Love whose fervor every sorrow 

Brightens with a holier ray. 

Home, my home, oh ! dearest treasure, 

With its hearth-stone's peaceful bliss, 
Brightened o'er with gems from heaven, 

Where no gentle smile I miss; 
Heaven preserve the happy circle 

That still gathers round me there ! 
While my children's merry voices 

Chase away intrusive care, 
Whose affection springing freshly, 

Maketh all the world most fair. 



LONELY HOURS 285 

Soothing words — how dark and lonely 

Those must be who know you not ! 
Exiles from the hopes of nature, 

Sad indeed must be your lot. 
Sadder those who once have tasted 

Half the sweets of home-made joy, 
And have felt them coldly vanish, 

Breaking as a reed or toy ; 
Cut off rudely by the reaper 

Who our earthly ties destroy. 

Home, my home, where peace and pleasure 

Smoothes life's path-way as I roam, 
With one honoured form beside me, 

In whose heart love makes my home — 
In whose bosom every feeling 

Poured from out my trembling breast, 
Meets with sympathy and kindness, 

'Till each fear is lull'd to rest — 
From whose noble soul rare treasures, 

Home, my happy home, have bless'd. 



286 LONELY HOU&S. 

STANZAS. 

I sadly marked her lovely cheek 

Grow paler day by day ; 
Saw all the beauty that I prized, 

Was fading fast away ; 
Yet deemed the fervour of my love, 

Death's icicles could melt ; 
'Till sadly, slowly, every coil 

Upon my heart was felt. 

I'm resting now upon her tomb, 

And think of all the past, 
The sunny page of memory 

Grows dark 'neath sorrow's blast. 
I dare not read that page again, 

If reason I would save, 
Since she who traced with me the tale, 

Lies silent in the grave. 

Fll plant these flowers on her bed, 

Though gay each leaf appears ; 
And they shall bloom in winter time, 

Kept watered by my tears. 
All hope is fading from my life, 

Crushed out by hard despair, 
Where shall I meet thee once again ? 

In Heaven, beloved, oh ! there. 



LONELY HOURS. 287 

THE AMERICAN MOTHER. 

— A Mrs Eastwiek, living in America, has destroyed the sight of 
one of her sons that he might not be drawn for a soldier. She had 
previously lost two in battle. Since the perpetration of this dreadful 
act she has become insane. — Irish Times. 

She stands with her grey locks streaming, 

All wild in the midnight blast — 
The flash of her black eyes gleaming. 

Have over the battle passed. 
Loved dead at her feet are lying, 

Still damp in their crimson gore ; 
She stifles her heart's lond crying 

To moisten their white lips o'er — 
Ah ! these are the treasures stolen 

Erom out a fond mother's store. 

She flees from the battle wildly, 

Elees back to her cottage lone— 
Yet looks on her last child mildly, 

And speaks in a gracious tone ; 
She smoothes back his auburn tresses, 

To gaze in those fearless eyes, 
But while she the dear head presses, 

On, onward a black thought flies, 
To goad her with pangs of parting, 

'Neath which tender nature dies. 



288 LONELY HOURS. 

'Tis done, the foul deed is ended ! 

Those orbs, once so sweetly bright, 
Where rays from the soul were blended 

With beams of a holy light, 
Are sightless, and dark for ever ! 

Calm peace, too, is clouded now, 
The sunshine of joy can never, 

Illumine his manly brow ! 
His life's like a young oak blighted — - 

Hope hangs on a faded bough. 

She smiles with her grey locks streaming, 

All wild in dishevelled maze, 
And raves of the past, still deeming 

She lives in those happy days. 
But the deed is done, wild mother, 

Laugh on in thy frantic joy; 
If madness thy pain can smother, 

Still play with thy treasured toy, 
Nor reck thou hast marred a hero, 

To rescue thy sightless boy. 



Goodwin, Son, & Nethercott, Printers, 70, Marlborough Street, Dublin. 



LONELY HOURS. 

By same Author, 288 pages, in cloth, 4s. 



Opinions of tbc gwss. 

" In her preface, Mrs. Fisher makes an appeal for critical 
lenity, which we have no inclination to slight. She has 
much kind and womanly feeling, which she expresses 
generally in simple language and smooth verse." — The 
Athenaeum. 

" Fanny Fisher appears to have commenced the practice 
of verse writing at a very early age, and, considering that 
the greater part of what she afterwards composed was 
' thrown off amidst household avocations, and without any 
superintendence from literary friends,' she may fairly enough 
claim the indulgence of critics. Apart from any con- 
sideration of this kind, however — and all literary efforts 
must stand or fall by their own innate merits — every one 
who reads Lonely Hours must confess that there is wonderful 
smoothness in the verses, and that they embody sentiments 
beautiful and pure. There is wonderful correctness, too, in 
the writing, and we can welcome Mrs. Fisher as a warbler 
whose strains are all the more soothing because occasionally 
sad." — The Reader, November, 1864. 

" There are pretty thoughts in these pages. The authoress 
possesses many of the qualities of the genuine poet — fine 
• feeling, a good ear, and a sympathy with external nature. 
There is an absence of affectation in her pieces, too, which 
raises her above the ordinary crowd of aspirants. A few 
pieces are worthy of being committed to memory, alike 
from the beauty of the words, and the excellence of the 



LONELY HOURS. 

sentiment. For the sake of these we desire to offer a word 
of encouragement to the young poet. We have no doubt 
she can produce something much better if she did herself 
full justice, and we trust she will come before the public 
again, after a proper interval, with a few short poems upon 
which she has concentrated her powers, eschewing all 
imagery which savours of the commonplace, and clothing 
her thoughts in the simple and elegant language of which 
it is evident she possesses no common fund." — Dublin 
Evening Mail, November 4, 18G4. 

" It would be incompatible with the limits of our space 
to present even an outline, much less an analysis, of the 
volume's contents. They are varied, and from first to last 
redolent of purity and piety. The mantle of Felicia Hemans 
has fallen on her younger sister, in whom we have another 
minstrel of the Lares and Penates. There is nothing dele- 
terions in these pages. She did well to place the figures of 
Vice and Virtue in the foreground of a picture diversified 
with so many groups. They are graphically and vividly 
limned. 'The Chiaroscuro' is admirably defined. We 
will not attempt to extract selections, but leave it to the 
reader's judgment to discern the special excellencies. 
Throughout, the music of the rhythm is all but faultless. 
The language, too, is eloquent, and the imagination, while 
chaste, yet luxuriant. In fine, we cordially commend this 
little volume to the perusal of all who possess taste and 
feeling, and would merely add as our verdict, in the words 
of another poet, that c a thing of beauty is a joy for ever.' " — 
The Limerick Chronicle, November, 1864. 

" These poems are varied in character and in length ; 
but two, indeed, and these the opening ones, exceeding a 
page or two in their treatment. They have all a redeeming 
quality, which has always appeared to our minds to make 
up for much deficiency in mere poetic style and finish, and 
that is that an excellent spirit pervades every line of the 
entire work. There is not a single thought enunciated in 



LONELY HOURS. 

the volume which can wound the delicacy of the most 
sensitive, or embitter the ' lonely hours' of the most lonely 
amongst us. The poems are healthy in their tone,' and 
handy in their subject and style of treatment. Mrs. Fisher 
has accomplished so much in affording her friends and the 
public plain and wholesome materials for a quiet mental 
repast." — The Tyrone Constitution, November 11, lS6i. 

" If we want sublimity in poetry, Ave can seek the sources 
of it in great passions, grand thoughts, and elevated ex- 
pressions ; and many know where to find those qualities 
even though they cannot analyze them, and have never 
read a word of Aristotle, or Longinus, or Burke, or Akenside. 

' : But if we are dealing with the more soothing kinds of 
poetry, such as ballads and fugitive pieces, what we look 
for, and cannot dispense with, is originality, terseness, ten- 
derness, melody, and variety, not forgetting beauty, amia- 
bility, and propriety of sentiment. 

" Now we do not profess to discover all those fine qualities 
combined in Mrs. Fisher's poems, but we do think we see 
many of them, and there is a simple and hearty naturalness 
about almost all of them which constitutes their peculiar 
charm. In a young lady's first publication, containing some 
pieces written at a very early age, it is only a matter of 
surprise that there are not more faults of thought and ex- 
pression in a volume of nearly 300 pages ; it is equally 
surprising that there are not more literal errors, and more 
feeble specimens of the authoress's powers. We have left 
ourselves no room for extracts, and, such being the case, we 
expect to return to the subject again ; but in the meantime 
we have no hesitation in saying that several of the poems 
in this volume would not discredit some of our best known 
poetesses."— The Reporter and Vindicator, November, 1864. 

" The head and heart and pen of the gifted woman 
who has given to the world such genuine proofs of sterling 
intellectual ability as this volume decidedly contains, show 
an order of genius which, for true tenderness of style and 



LONELY HOURS. 

beauty of sentiment, has rarely developed itself amongst 
the fair sisters of the muses. 

" In the poem of Vice and Virtue are many noble traits of 
genius, in which she displays a fine conception of her sub- 
ject. Her illustrations are not overtouched nor obscured 
by dull fictitious colourings, but are naturally true, and 
sweetly delineated. But why should Mrs. Fisher appeal in 
her preface to the cold mercy of the critic ? The sting of 
censure cannot destroy true merit, and the dignity of genius 
should never bow at the frigid tribunal of criticism. She is 
one of nature's nobility, and may she to her heart's satis- 
faction realize the esteem and applause of the admirers of 
the pure, the virtuous, and the beautiful, to which meed 
her talents and attainments justly entitle her!" — The 
Mv/nster News, November 18, 1864. 

" There are individual poems in this volume which, if 
criticised with a candid and unprejudiced mind, will be 
found to contain as much of the spirit of real poetry as 
many of the poetical compositions of modern times. The 
language is beautiful and chaste, the metre smooth and 
rhythmical, and proves the fair authoress to be at least a 
highly gifted and accomplished lady. We heartily con- 
gratulate Mrs. Fisher on her literary powers, and sincerely 
trust that her volume of poems, replete as they arc with 
poetic sentiment, elegant language, and refined taste, will 
be read with interest, and duly appreciated by a discerning 
public." — The Southern Chronicle, November 5, 1864. 




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